Strange Condition
by Harikari
Summary: A month after the events at Kirby Plaza Mohinder visits another special individual from his father's list. This leads to an unexpected meeting with a certain serial killer, a kidnapping, and a battle with a man out for revenge. Slash.
1. Chapter 1

**Title:** Strange Condition  
**Author:** Harikari  
**Pairing:** Sylinder (Sylar/Mohinder)  
**Rating:** Hard R  
**Disclaimer:** Don't own em'. No copyright infringement is intended. I'm writing this for fun, not profit.  
**Warnings:** Major spoilers for all of season 1, violence, some gore, strong language, eventual slash and sex(iness), possible dub-con, angst, etc.  
**AN:** Starts up a month after the events of season one. No spoilers for season two, just AUness and speculation. My first Heroes fic. Feedback is appreciated.

**Summary:** A month after the events at Kirby Plaza Mohinder visits another special individual from his father's list. This leads to an unexpected meeting with a certain supposed-to-be-dead serial killer, a kidnaping, and a battle with a man out for revenge – a man whose powers happen to rival even Sylar's.

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**"I'm the hero."** - Sylar (Season 1, _How to Stop an Exploding Man_)

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**Part One**

Mohinder climbed the three splintered and creaky wooden steps that led up to 1614 Bloomfield Avenue's quaint wrap-around porch. He stopped at the front door, took a deep breath, then reached to press the button that was mounted close to the door's frame. He heard the doorbell ring out from somewhere within the bowels of the house – a dull, singsong tone. The wind picked up suddenly, sending a cool breeze rushing up the loose sleeves of his jacket. Mohinder shivered; wrapped his arms over his chest.

It was cold. December cold. Frowning, the geneticist realized it was the ninth of December. That meant it had been a little over a month since Kirby Plaza. A month since Peter Petrelli had lost control and Nathan Petrelli had sacrificed himself for the greater good, a month since Claire and Noah Bennet had left New York for Texas and their family, and a month since Hiro Nakamura had stabbed Sylar clean through the stomach with a sword.

_Sylar_. At the mere thought of the man – of the gruesome murderer of so many innocent people, the murderer of _his_ father – Mohinder's muscles tightened and tensed. His mind flooded with the image of Molly, sweet little girl that she was, and with fear. Fear that somehow Sylar would get his hands on Molly, would get his hands on Claire or Micah or one of the other individuals with special abilities that Mohinder had had the pleasure to meet, fear that he would...

But. No.

Sylar was dead. Yes, the man had been missing in action that night after the explosion in the sky that was Peter, a smear of blood leading to a gaping sewer entrance the only proof that he had ever been to Kirby Plaza at all. But Mohinder had seen with his own eyes the way that Hiro's blade had gone through Sylar – into his stomach and out of his back. He had seen Sylar collapse, had seen all of the blood. 

Sylar was dead, and Molly was safe with Niki Sanders and her family in Las Vegas. Nathan Petrelli was presumed dead and declared missing, Peter Petrelli hadn't been seen since the explosion. Hiro Nakamura had disappeared. And he was here – the New York suburbs, 1614 Bloomfield Avenue – waiting for Jake R. Harris to open his front door so that he could talk to the man about whatever special ability it was he had. So that he could offer his help.  
_  
I can't believe it's been a month already_.

Mohinder rang the doorbell again; shoved his gloved hands into his jacket's pockets. He heard a sudden shuffling, the sharp snap of a lock being undone. The door swung inwards with a horrible whine of its hinges and a tall, broad-shouldered man with a graying, close-cut head of hair was revealed. His eyes were narrowed.

"Mr. Harris?" asked Mohinder. He held out his hand before the man had a chance to answer. "I'm Mohinder Suresh. I-"

"Right," said Harris, cutting him off abruptly. "You. I know who you are." He stared at the offered hand like it was something foul. Mohinder let his arm drop to his side; shifted. A strange, icy feeling began to creep slowly up his spine. Jake Harris had agreed to meet with him when he'd talked to the man over the phone two days ago – he had sounded somewhat distrustful then, a little reluctant, but he'd _agreed_. He certainly hadn't sounded the way he sounded now – angry, dangerous.

There was silence for a moment. Harris looked beyond Mohinder, his dark eyes sweeping over his own quiet street, the still houses that made up his neighborhood. His eyes stopped on Mohinder's rental car – the silver Kia Rio he'd driven all the way from New York City. He'd parked the car next to the curb, in front of the mailbox. Feeling uneasy, Mohinder let his own gaze stray upwards. The sky was rapidly darkening with night. He had agreed to meet Jake Harris in the early evening because the man had insisted it was the only time, week or weekend, he wouldn't be otherwise occupied. However, standing in front of the glaring man, darkness quickly descending, Mohinder couldn't help but wish that he hadn't agreed so readily.

"Well," said Harris. "Are you coming in or not?" His eyes broke away from the rental car. He took a step back so that he was no longer blocking the doorway with his bulk. Forcing his lips into a friendly smile, Mohinder brushed past the man and entered the house.

He breathed and a dry, unpleasant feeling settled at the back of his throat. The house smelled of smoke. The house smelled _strongly_ of smoke. He fought the urge to cough; took in his surroundings. The narrow entrance hall he was standing in, a small living room sprawled just ahead, a gaping doorway beyond the living room that served as entrance to a kitchen. It was a nice place. Smallish and comfortable. A space that was dominated by oranges, yellows and greens – dominated by colors that hadn't been popular in households for over thirty years.

The front door closed with a faint _click_. Without a word, Harris moved down the short hallway and into the living room. Mohinder followed.

"Sit." The man waved vaguely in the direction of a pea green couch that was situated in front of a television. The television's volume was low; what looked like an old action movie was flashing across its screen. Harris disappeared into the kitchen, and Mohinder sat.

There was the sound of glasses clinking, the groan of pipes working, and then Harris was back in the living room. He was gripping two tall glasses of ice water, one in each hand. He placed one on the coffee table in front of Mohinder before dropping down into the large, worn-looking recliner to the right of the couch.

Mohinder stared at the glass of water in front of him; moved so that he was sitting at the edge of the couch. "Mr. Harris," he started, "perhaps we should start with you telling me what exactly your...ability is."

The man didn't reply right away. Instead, he brought the edge of his own glass of water to his lips and drank. He drank until the glass was half empty, until the strange feeling of something cold moving up Mohinder's back had returned. And then he slammed the glass down hard on the coffee table, sat up straighter, and dug into his shirt pocket. He pulled out a packet of cigarettes. Mohinder watched silently as he pulled out a single cigarette, put it into his mouth, and then lit it with a neon blue lighter that had been sitting, precariously, on the arm of the recliner.

"Okay," said Harris. "You want to know what it is I can do?" He eyed the geneticist; eyed him in a way that suggested the younger man didn't really want to know, in a way that suggested wanting to know was a _bad thing_.

Mohinder placed his hands on his knees; dug his nails into the fabric of his slacks. He considered leaving. Jake Harris had not sounded disturbed, and ominous, and angry on the phone those two days ago. He sounded all of those things now.

Harris was making him rather nervous, to say the least. And he wasn't sure, considering that nervousness – that vague feeling of icy dread – that he wanted to sit and listen to what the man had to say.

Jake Harris took his cigarette out of his mouth; breathed out a small cloud of smoke that curled toward the television. Mohinder looked again at the glass of water the man had placed on the coffee table in front of him. 

_I'm being paranoid_, he thought. And he was. He knew he was.

He turned away from the glass of water; stared instead at the television. He was being an idiot. There was nothing wrong, nothing threatening, about Jake Harris. Harris was just a bad-tempered man in his late fifties with a military haircut and a serious addiction to nicotine. Just –

_What?_ A sudden, unnatural twist of light flashed across the television's screen. Not a fake explosion or fake gunfire; not something that was a part of the drama playing out across the screen. No. A _reflection_. Mohinder half-turned in his seat.

Directly behind him – behind the couch – was a large, square window. The window was covered with blinds. The blinds were open, gaping. The heavy gray of the early evening sky was slicing through the horizontal gaps, casting shadows in the living room's corners. Outside the night was still steadily descending; it wouldn't be long before the streetlights would start to glow. There was nothing beyond the window. No _one_ beyond the window. And yet...Mohinder was _sure_ he'd seen something. He was sure he had seen a tall and imposing figure streak by the window in the television screen's reflection, a flash of dark clothing and pale skin.

_Paranoid_, he thought again. _I'm being ridiculous and_ paranoid.

Taking a deep breath and squaring his shoulders, Mohinder forced the strong sense of dread he was feeling to the back of his mind. The feeling – fueled by his realization just minutes before on Harris's doorstep that it had been over a month since the world had almost ended, fueled by his resulting thoughts of the cold-blooded monster who had killed his father, who had lied to him and who had _used_ him so horribly – was false and unnecessary.

"Of course," he said just as Harris was taking another deep drag of his cigarette. "Please. That's why I'm here, Mr. Harris. To document your ability so that I might eventually be able to help you, and others like you."

The man stilled. Something dark seemed to flicker behind his eyes. And then, "What do you mean, Suresh?" He moved forward in his seat; bent closer to the geneticist. "What do you mean when you say _help_?"

Mohinder carefully ignored the use of his last name without a title. "Well," he explained, "sometimes those who have abilities are a danger – to themselves and to others. They can't _control_ -" 

"Fine," said Harris. It was as if he suddenly didn't want to listen to Mohinder any longer; didn't want to hear his voice. "You want to know what is I can do? I'll tell you." 

Mohinder expected the man to move. He expected Harris to stand, to tell him to make room so that he could demonstrate whatever it was he was capable of, or even to just start talking. Start explaining what it was he could _do_. Instead, he stared. He looked at Mohinder with hard eyes. And for a long moment it seemed as though he was trying to be sure of something – trying to find an answer, to find some sort of conformation, in the depth of his guest's gaze, the curve of his jaw.

"I went to the grocery store the other day," Harris started, just as the geneticist was opening his mouth to break the uncomfortable silence. "I went to the grocery store the day you called me. It was a few hours after you talked to me." The man paused. He glanced at the cigarette he was holding; smashed it into the ash tray that was sitting at the edge of the coffee table. "I saw a girl there." He looked at Mohinder again – met him eye to eye. "It wasn't the first time something's happened. But it was...different." He paused. Narrowed his eyes. "It was more _important_. I saw a girl there and she-"

The knock startled them both. Mohinder, caught up in listening to his host and trying to decipher what going to a grocery store and seeing a girl might have to do with having a special ability, _flinched_. Harris jumped in his seat. 

Mohinder stared at the man; noticed that he had moved to the very edge of the recliner, that both of his fists were tightly clenched, that his entire frame was taught and strained. He seemed _ready_ for something, on the verge of _doing_ something. 

Harris bared his teeth in a grimace and stood. He shot his guest a look. "You didn't bring anyone with you?" he asked, glaring. "Didn't have anyone...follow you here?" 

Caught off guard, Mohinder blinked. Shook his head. "What? No, of course not. I would've told you. I work alone, Mr. Harris." 

Another knock. Without another word Harris turned and disappeared into the small entrance hallway. There was some quiet grumbling, the sound of a lock being undone, and then...silence. 

The sudden silence filled the house; it felt unnatural, eerie. It felt _wrong_.

Mohinder strained his ears.

"I should've known," came Harris' voice, breaking the quiet as abruptly as it had fallen. "Son of a _bitch_!" 

Startled, Mohinder stood. He stared blankly at the television and wondered at what he was hearing. Perhaps it was the result of some sort of long running family or neighborly spat – perhaps it was something else. He considered going to the front door, brushing by Harris and whoever was at the door with an excuse, and then marching down the walk to his car. Leaving.

"Holy _shit_," Harris said. "Son of a bitch!"

_Yes_, Mohinder thought. _Leaving now would probably be wise_. He took a step forward.

"I should've known," Harris went on, his voice picking up both volume and urgency and rushing its way down the hallway, bending into the living room. "I shouldn't have hesitated. I -"

"I don't know what you're talking about, and I don't care," came a low and steady voice that caused Mohinder's eyes to immediately widen, caused goose bumps to rise on his flesh, caused his muscles to tense in fear – and then Jake Harris came flying into the living room, as if thrown suddenly backward by a powerful force. His body hit the frame of the gaping doorway that led into the small kitchen, his head bounced, and he slid to the floor.

Mohinder breathed. A moment beat by. Another.

And then a tall and imposing figure sporting a long, black trench coat strode into the living room. Sylar stared at Harris' crumpled form for a brief second, then turned. As the man was turning toward him, Mohinder felt a strange pressure on his chest – a pressure that felt much like a hand getting ready to shove him. Sylar's gaze met his own, the man's eyes widened slightly, and then the pressure disappeared.

"You," Mohinder managed. His mind had abruptly clouded with fear, with _shock_.

Sylar's mouth twisted into a cruel-looking smile. "Me," he said. _Purred. _He stepped closer. "Hello, Mohind-"

But before the name had fully escaped his lips Harris rose from the floor in a flash of movement. Mohinder felt his feet leave the floor, felt his body rushing through air, felt a white hot pain in his neck, heard Sylar growl something – and then there was darkness.


	2. Chapter 2

**AN:** Much thanks to all of those who commented last chapter. I apologize for the long wait for this part (I'll spare you my excuses) -- I hope it doesn't disappoint! Feedback (good? bad? notice any errors?) is appreciated.

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**Part Two  
**

Mohinder opened his eyes. Saw white. He took in a deep, startled breath and let it out in a hiss of pain. The left side of his body – from his neck all the way down to his hip – seemed to be throbbing, _hurting_.

He shifted; felt a softness beneath him and realized that he was belly down on a bed, that the white he was seeing was a pillow pressed close to his face. He blinked, lifted his head from the pillow – he caught a glimpse of walls yellowed with age, of a small, square window – and let out an involuntary gasp at a sudden, particularly sharp flare of pain.

"You're fine," came a voice from above him. The voice sounded distracted, harried, and dreadfully familiar. Mohinder's muscles went taught. The memories of Jake Harris, of sitting on Harris' couch and feeling something ominous slither up his spine, of seeing Harris crumple to the floor and then seeing _Sylar_ hit him in a rush.

His entire left side twinging in protest, he pushed himself up; forced himself to sit. Sylar was standing at the end of the bed, his knees pressed up against the edge of it. He was staring down at the geneticist – though his gaze seemed strangely vacant – and his posture was hunched, his left arm wrapped tight around his abdomen.

Mohinder's mouth felt suddenly dry. He swallowed; his eyes darted to take in his surroundings (there was another bed to his left, a slightly ajar door that led into what looked like a small bathroom beyond that, an old television sitting atop a scratched wooden stand almost directly across from the bed he was on, and a closed door to his right) before landing back on the figure looming over him.

"You're...alive?" The question came out soft and shaky. Sylar blinked. The vacant look vanished. He grinned.

Mohinder's stomach rolled. _Idiot_, he thought, and clenched his teeth. _Yes_. _He's alive_. Obviously. _Just don't show him you're afraid_. _Don't...do anything stupid_. _Just...  
_  
"Where are we?" he asked, and this time it came out loud – still shaky. "What-"

"A motel," came Sylar's answer – a low, dangerous sounding rumble in his throat. "We're in a motel room, Mohinder. I brought you here."

The geneticist stared. A remark involving how very unhelpful that answer was came floating to the forefront of his mind. He bit his tongue; reminded himself that the serial killer standing before him was very likely not concerned with giving helpful answers, reminded himself that he was lucky to still be breathing.

Feeling unsure, frightened, _confused_ – Mohinder shifted. Again, a sharp pain shot suddenly up the left side of his body. He grunted; reached to rub at his neck. Without thinking he moved to stand – to stretch out his muscles, perhaps it would alleviate some of the pain he was feeling...

"No," said Sylar, and then there was a weight on his shoulders – invisible hands forcing him back down. "Stay."

_His telekinesis_, thought Mohinder. And despite everything the geneticist had seen since first arriving in the United States, since making the decision to continue his father's work – despite everything he'd been through, he couldn't help but be a little bit amazed at it.

He sat. Sylar stared. Memories of how the serial killer had put his telekinesis to use in the past assaulted him in an abrupt flash; left behind a knot of apprehension in his stomach.

"You're fine," said Sylar, again. Mohinder realized he was still gripping his neck – let his hand drop. "I checked."

_He...checked_. The geneticist swallowed. Took a deep breath. He tried not to think about what exactly the man meant by that; instead focused on the anger that was welling up inside of him.

The strange fog that had obscured his mind upon waking was clearing. The lost feeling, the almost overwhelming sensation of _unbalance_ was fading fast – morphing into a dark, forceful emotion that was fueled by the memory of the killer's betrayal of him at their first meeting, the knowledge that the man had violently taken at least half a dozen lives.

"What happened?" asked Mohinder, and the fear was almost completely gone from his voice. Almost. A brief pause and then, "Jake Harris. What did you do to him?"

The hint of a grin Sylar was wearing vanished. He didn't answer; didn't move.

"You killed him. You...didn't you?" Mohinder clenched his teeth; realized that he was shaking. He took another deep breath, narrowed his eyes. "You killed him. You murdered him and you took his ability. Wh-"

"He tried to kill you," cut in Sylar – and his voice sounded oddly breathy, weak.

Surprised, Mohinder blinked. Stared. The serial killer's eyes seemed glassy, vague – his arm was still wrapped tight around his abdomen, he was bent slightly at the waist, and his breathing was harsh, fast. _Hurt_, thought the geneticist. _He's _hurt.

"You asked me what happened. I'm telling you. He tried to kill you. He tried to kill us. I fought him and he...ran." A pause. "He got away."

A long, silent moment slipped by. Mohinder's lips thinned. He shook his head. "That...it doesn't make sense. You're lying." The man had to be lying. _Was_ lying. Jake Harris had most definitely not tried to kill him...kill _them_. If Harris had done anything at all it had no doubt been in self defense. Sylar had knocked on the unsuspecting man's front door with murder in mind, had sent him flying into a door frame – if the man had done anything violent (and the geneticist had no concrete reason to believe that he had) it had doubtlessly been an attempt to protect himself. Had been out of _fear_.

"You're lying," repeated Mohinder. "_You_ attacked Harris. You attacked him, you used your telekinesis on me and -"

"Enough," snapped Sylar. His eyes narrowed and he flashed his teeth in a grimace. "You asked me what happened, Mohinder. I told you – Harris is the one who threw you. It doesn't matter if you believe me or not." He paused, hugged his left arm more tightly around his waist. "I don't care. I didn't bring you here to argue with you."

Mohinder swallowed. His fists clenched and his blunt nails dug into the flesh of his palms. The dark, angry tone of the serial killer's voice had caused the fear that had faded moments before to creep its way back into his veins, his heart. The geneticist bit at his bottom lip – caught himself and stopped. "Why did you bring me here?" he asked. "Why..." he trailed off. _Why am I still alive? How are _you _still alive?_

Sylar didn't answer. He stepped back from the foot of the bed; hesitated. "Just...stay," he ordered. "Don't move." And with that he turned, strode quickly across the room, and disappeared into the small bathroom.

Mohinder was still. He heard a pained groan, then the sound of running water – he thought Sylar was probably standing at the bathroom sink, maybe inspecting the wound on his abdomen. Because there _had_ to be a wound. Not only was the man very obviously in pain – Mohinder had seen the time traveler, Hiro Nakamura, run him through with a sword a mere month before. There _was_ a wound.

_He should be dead._

Without the threatening presence that was Sylar standing directly before him, the geneticist's mind reeled; attempted to wrap itself around exactly what had happened to him, what was happening to him.

Slowly, Mohinder unclenched his fists – saw that his nails had left half-moon shaped grooves in his skin. He shot a look at the room's window; could make out the thick darkness of nightfall through the thin, ratty looking curtains.

_So_, he thought. _What exactly _is_ going on here?_ He had been kidnaped – and he wasn't quite sure why – by a serial killer. A serial killer he had a _history_ with, a serial killer who was supposed to be dead. Sylar was supposed to be _dead_.

_Why isn't he dead?_ Mohinder had been among those who had seen the man fall, had been sure...

No. That wasn't true. The geneticist hadn't felt _sure_ that the killer was dead. He'd never felt sure. He'd had a strange feeling about the man's death since its occurrence – since that night at Kirby Plaza. There had been no body (only a gruesome trail of blood and a surety that a horrible, likely _mortal_ injury had been inflicted upon the super powered villain), and Molly hadn't been able to confirm Sylar's death or survival when she'd searched for him – the little girl had said he _felt_ gone, that she couldn't _'see'_ him, but had also admitted that she'd never tried searching for a dead person before, so wasn't sure what it was _supposed _to feel like. And then there had been Mohinder's own doubts. Doubts brought to fruition by the eerie feeling of being watched and the sharp sensation of paranoia that had been plaguing him since November.

The geneticist turned toward the bathroom – saw that Sylar had left the door only slightly ajar. The water was still running; he could hear his captor moving around. Again, he shot a look at the room's window – guessed that it had been at least a handful of hours since Harris' house, since he'd been violently and unexpectedly forced into unconsciousness.

His thoughts strayed to Jake Harris. _Is he dead?_ he wondered. Or was what Sylar had said true? Could Harris have been powerful enough to escape a supernaturally strong killer, a killer who had (apparently) managed to cheat practically certain death? _Why would Sylar lie about him? About killing him?_

_Killing.  
_  
And then his thoughts turned abruptly to Molly – to Matt Parkman and Claire Bennet and Micah Sanders...to all of those on his father's list, to all of those with 'unnatural' abilities. They all thought Sylar was no more; they had no idea of the danger they were in. He had to warn them. He had to do something.

Mohinder stared at the closed door to his right – the way out. He breathed. He had no idea why the serial killer had made the decision to bring him to this motel, didn't know why the man hadn't simply killed him on sight. What he did know was that he had to warn all of those people, those unsuspecting individuals Sylar was no doubt planning on murdering for their powers. He knew that the longer he stayed the killer's captive, the closer he came to being murdered himself – the closer he came to not being _able_ to warn Molly Walker and the others.

_Molly_, he thought. His stomach turned. The little girl was with Niki Sanders and her family; he'd heard that Matt Parkman was planning to take her as soon as he recovered from the considerable injury that had been inflicted upon him at Kirby Square. Mohinder himself had entertained ideas of...

_Focus_, he thought. Molly and the others were safe. For now. They'd have at least a slightly better chance of staying safe if he warned them about Sylar's return.

The geneticist turned back to the door; slid across the comforter and swung his legs over the side of the bed. His shoes touched the carpet. He stopped, held his breath. In the bathroom the water continued to run, the muffled sounds of movement went on uninterrupted.

He glanced at the phone that was sitting on the night stand tucked between the two beds – noticed the strip of paper with the words OUT OF ORDER - PLEASE USE FRONT OFFICE PHONE taped to its surface and suppressed a groan. It was just as well. With his kidnaper so close, it was _very_ unlikely he would've gotten away with using the room's phone to call someone for help anyway. It was possibly even _more_ unlikely he would get away with what he was about to attempt (he didn't know precisely what he was going to do – escape the room, perhaps get to the front office and try to call someone before the man realized he was gone, perhaps just _run_), but he had to try.

Mohinder stood. He could hear his heart pounding in his ears; hoped that Sylar was hurting enough – hoped that the man was _distracted_ enough – that he wouldn't tune in to his super hearing, wouldn't notice.

He took a single step forward; paused. Seconds ticked by. He bit at his bottom lip, realized that he was still shaking...

And then he _moved_. The sound of his sneakers was muffled by the carpeting – hardly a sound at all. He reached the door, grabbed the knob, _pulled_...

"I told you to stay," came a voice from behind him. The door shut again with a sharp _snap_, and Mohinder cried out at what felt like a violent shove. His entire right side hit the wall _hard_. He let out a pained grunt then pushed quickly away from the wall, took a step forward. _Fell_. His knees hit the floor (he made the vague connection that he'd tripped over the two duffle bags and the suitcase that were piled close to the door); he moved to push himself up again...

And then Sylar was suddenly right _there_, at his back. Large hands gripped his waist and the geneticist panicked – turned over and kicked out. His kick landed; hit shin. Sylar cursed, said something low and angry and dangerous. Mohinder didn't hear. Didn't care. Memories of what he'd been through with the killer, of all the horrible things the killer had done had blossomed in his mind – vivid, heart wrenching and sharp. He wasn't thinking anymore; he was reacting.

He felt a pressure on both of his arms – the invisible hands again. Both of his arms were forced above his head, pressed flat to the floor. He kept fighting, squirming – he was breathing hard and his heart was pounding in his chest and he wanted to _get away_.

"Suresh," said Sylar. Then, "_Mohinder_."

Mohinder kicked again. A t-shirt, a toothbrush sealed inside of a plastic sandwich bag, and a black college ruled notebook all came flying out of one of the duffle bags – the dark blue bag, the one that was open. He struggled against the pressure keeping his arms flat, kicked out _again_. The notebook went sliding across the carpet.

"_Stop_," said Sylar. And he bent, grabbed the geneticist under the arms and _lifted_. Once Mohinder was on his feet he half dragged him to the bed near the bathroom – the bed farthest from the door; pushed him down so that he was on his back.

Mohinder, breathless and ashamed for a reason he couldn't quite pinpoint, stared up at his captor. Sylar stared back; placed a hand, palm down, to the right of the smaller man's head and leaned into it. He stopped when his face was close to the geneticist's. Mohinder could smell mint, could feel the killer's breath ghosting across his face. "You won't do that again."

Mohinder didn't move. Sylar lingered for a brief moment, then pulled away. The man waved his hand and the room's lights shut off, the television clicked on. Two smiling anchors were wrapping up the evening news.

"Get some sleep," ordered the killer. Sylar walked across the room and picked up the black notebook. He climbed into the vacant bed, then shoved the notebook under his pillow.

Mohinder pushed himself to his elbows; maneuvered into a more comfortable position. His heartbeat was almost back to normal, his breathing was steady.

He settled back into the lumpy mattress, stared blankly at the television in front of him.

_Well done_, he thought sardonically. _That was brilliant, Mohinder.  
_  
His entire body was sore. He was tired. But even as the hours wore on, as the black of night outside shifted to gray dawn, he didn't fall asleep; hardly allowed himself to blink.

Because Sylar was alive. Sylar had kidnaped him. Sylar was mere feet away, sleeping peacefully. Probably dreaming of blood, of brains, of horrific murder.

_Brilliant._


	3. Chapter 3

**-----**

**Part Three**

_I can't believe this._ Mohinder plucked at the shirt he was wearing – a dark blue long sleeved shirt that was at least two sizes too large for him. Sylar's shirt. He bent to lean on the edge of the sink in front of him, stared at himself in the mirror.

He was standing in the motel's small bathroom. The door was closed; under the buttery glow of the bathroom's light he could make out the shadows under his eyes, the tightness of his jaw.

He hadn't slept at all the night before. Through the night and early morning he'd stared bleary-eyed and without really seeing at the murmuring television across from him – had listened to his captor's steady breathing. He'd heard when the man had shifted in his sleep, when the killer had finally rolled out of bed.

Sylar hadn't said a word. Not at first. He'd simply picked up the duffel bag that had been left gaping and in disarray the night before, stooped to grab the t-shirt and the toothbrush wrapped in a sandwich bag from the floor, then walked across the expanse of the carpet and into the bathroom.

Mohinder had listened to the sound of the shower running, some movement. Then the bathroom door had opened, a rush of moist air and heat had spilled out into the room, and the killer had stepped out. He'd been dressed, his hair wet. He'd shrugged the duffel bag's strap off of his shoulder before shoving the pile of clothes he was holding at the geneticist.

"Wha-" Mohinder had started, surprised.

"Get dressed."

Mohinder had considered arguing. He certainly didn't want to wear the man's clothes. He didn't want to feel their friction against his skin, didn't want to think about the fact that they might have once belonged to a victim of Sylar's or about all of the horrible things the serial killer might have done while _dressed_ in them. He'd kept quiet; had reached for the clothes. He was in a precarious position as it was. He was lucky he was still alive and relatively unharmed, had already tried and utterly failed to escape from his captor's clutches. If he wanted to gain the opportunity to escape and to warn Molly and the others about the powerful serial killer's unexpected return – about the fact that he had never really been defeated in the first place – he'd have to be careful about encouraging the man to raise his guard. He would have to pick his battles.

The geneticist grabbed the belt he'd left hanging on the towel rack while he'd pulled on the shirt and pants; wrestled it through belt loops before tightening and fastening it around his waist. The jeans were Sylar's, too. They were baggy and loose around the midriff on Mohinder.

_I look like a fool._ He ran slim fingers through his curls; moved to pick up his discarded clothes, which were scattered on the tiled floor. He had already used his index finger and the miniature tube of toothpaste he'd found inside of the small toiletries bag Sylar had left next to the sink to brush his teeth as best he could, shaved with one – an _unused_ one – of the three cheap razors that had also been in the bag and combed his hair. He had passed on an actual shower. He hadn't wanted to be in such a vulnerable state with a serial killer in the next room; didn't want to think about the possibility that he wouldn't be able to escape the man anytime soon, which meant his brief and mild rebellion would amount to nothing – he would have to shower _eventually_.

Mohinder took one last, searching look around the bathroom; juggled his dirty clothes so that he was supporting them with one arm and grabbed at the toiletries bag (it was filled with basic essentials like powder fresh deodorant, toothpaste, razors – if he _had_ to be stuck who knew where for who knew how long with the killer he didn't want it lost or forgotten ). Then he opened the door and stepped out.

Sylar was sitting on the bed he'd slept in. He had the black, college ruled notebook that he'd tucked underneath his pillow the night before open and on his lap. He was staring down at a single sheet of paper – an unlined sheet of paper that looked like it had been folded and tucked into the notebook for a time. He was rubbing it between his thumb and forefinger. He looked absorbed, intense.

The geneticist walked to the edge of his own adopted bed. Without a word, he stuffed his clothes and the smallish cloth bag he was holding into the gaping duffel that was sitting atop the bed's rumpled comforter.

Sylar looked up at him; closed the notebook in his lap with a snap. "All done, Mohinder?" he asked.

Mohinder didn't answer; tried to ignore the way the other man's eyes swept slowly over his body. "Good," said the killer after a long, uncomfortable moment. He was smiling a strange half smile. A smile that reminded Mohinder somehow of Zane. "You look..._fine_."

_Zane was a lie._

The geneticist scowled; tried not to squirm at the sensation of goose bumps rising on his flesh. There was something off about the way the serial killer was acting. Well...something more off than usual. The man wanted something – that was obvious, considering he hadn't killed his captive yet. But what? And why hadn't he just come out and said what it was he wanted already? Why hadn't he immediately _demanded_ it?

_Maybe he just wants me to suffer_, thought the geneticist. _Maybe he just wants me to wonder, to build things up in my mind so that I'll be absolutely terrified and confused. Maybe he wants to drive me _insane_ before he murders me_.

"I don't understand what-" started Mohinder, trying to sound calm and agreeable and determined to find out what exactly was going on all at the same time, but Sylar cut him off.

"Grab that," he ordered, gesturing at the duffel in front of the geneticist and standing himself. "And hurry up. We have a long drive ahead of us." He picked up the luggage still piled close to the wall, walked to the door, then stepped out of the room without looking back.

_A long drive_, thought Mohinder. _What does that mean? A long drive _where

He grabbed his jacket from the hook on the wall near the television (he had spotted it earlier that morning, had apparently been too frantic to notice it – or the fact that Sylar had obviously bothered to take it off of him and hang it up – the night before) and slipped it on. Then he zipped the duffel bag closed, secured its strap on his shoulder and lifted. He shot a hurried look around at the beds, the television on its wooden stand, the square window; walked out the door with an unpleasant clenching in his gut and the feeling that he was forgetting something, leaving something important behind.

Outside, the sunshine was bright. Its cheery light was such a sharp contrast to the gloom of the motel room that the geneticist's eyes stung; began to water. He wiped the wetness from his cheeks, took in his surroundings. He was facing the motel's front office. Through its glass walls he could make out a few scattered chairs (chairs that were apparently meant for waiting customers – they were all empty) and a dominating desk. There was a young woman behind the large desk; she had a pen in her hand, a phone to her ear and was bent over a pile of papers.

"Wait here," said the killer. And Mohinder waited as his captor headed for the office, his long legs easily eating up the distance. The man pulled open the door, strode inside, then slammed the room key down onto the desk before quickly turning and leaving. The girl on the phone looked up – her wide eyes found the killer's retreating form, traveled to the geneticist out in the parking lot. Mohinder stared at her, his mind racing and his expression blank.

"Come on," said Sylar. "Get in." Mohinder spun. The serial killer was standing next to a tan car that had a dent in its left rear door – a Ford Tempo. The geneticist watched as the man pulled open the driver's side door, slid in behind the steering wheel, then tossed the luggage he was holding onto the empty back seat.

The passenger's side door popped open, swung out. Mohinder walked over to the car; shoved the duffel bag he was carrying over the front seat and onto the back seat before getting in.

The car sputtered to a start. Sylar didn't immediately shift the vehicle into reverse. The geneticist stared at the clumps of snow that still stubbornly clung to and dotted the area outside his window, realized that the man was letting the engine warm.

_He's warming the engine_, thought Mohinder. And it was strange, witnessing Sylar doing such a mundane thing. Seeing a man that had killed before, a man who...

"Where are we going?" asked the geneticist abruptly, interrupting his own dark thoughts.

Sylar cocked an eyebrow. "Where do you think, Dr. Suresh?" A pause. "Back to Jake Harris' house." He put the car in reverse, backed from the parking space with ease.

"Harris." _Of course_.

Mohinder shifted in his seat; kicked at the numerous small paper bowls and plastic cups scattered on top of the floor mat. They had all, judging by the sweet odor and the familiar pink logo that was printed on them, once been filled with some form of ice cream. Bemused, he glanced at his captor.

But the man had straightened out the car, was shifting to 'drive'. "Buckle up," he said. Mohinder swallowed an angry remark; buckled up. They pulled away from the motel, out of its mostly empty parking lot, and into traffic.

-----

"Finished?" asked Sylar.

Mohinder stirred. He'd been looking out the window, his forehead pressed up against the glass. He hadn't been asleep. Just drowsy, drifting. He turned in his seat. "I'm sorry?" It was an automatic response – something the geneticist said when he hadn't quite heard something, when he thought he might have heard wrong. He wanted to take the words back as soon as they had escaped his mouth; didn't. Instead, he pursed his lips. Allowed a dark look (a look that went unseen because his captor was concentrating on the road) to grace his features.

The killer didn't answer immediately. He went completely still for a moment. Then he sat up straighter, gripped the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles went white. "Your food," he clarified. "Are you done eating?"

Mohinder glanced at the medium coffee he'd stuffed into one of the car's inbuilt cup holders, the hash brown half-wrapped in wax paper in his hand. Shortly after leaving the motel they had stopped for gas, then had hit the drive-through of a nearby fast food place. Sylar had ordered them both breakfast.

The geneticist shook his head. "I'm not hungry." He looked around for a place to put down the food he was holding; sighed when he didn't see a likely spot. He'd have to wait and throw it out when the car finally pulled to a stop.

"You haven't had anything to eat since at least last night," said Sylar.

Mohinder shrugged; realized the killer was busy looking at the traffic and the road and spoke up. "I'm not hungry," he said again.

The serial killer spared him a glance. His dark eyes swept quickly over the untouched coffee, the food in the geneticist's hand. "_Eat_, Mohinder."

Mohinder wanted to refuse. Wanted to throw the excuse for a breakfast Sylar had gotten him out the window. Instead he bit into the hash brown (it was unpleasantly greasy), reached for the coffee and took a drink (it had gone cold). He had been mostly quiet for the drive so far. He'd been going over his situation, his plan to escape (he had an unfortunate lack of one) and Harris in his head. He knew his captor was planning to kill Jake Harris. And he knew that, despite the fact that his first priority was to get _away_ and to warn someone who could conceivably do something to stop the serial killer (someone like Noah Bennet, who had _connections_), he couldn't stand idly by and let an innocent man be murdered. He had to somehow try and stop Sylar from murdering Harris – meaning he had a battle that was much more important than the one over whether or not he ate breakfast ahead of him.

The car rolled to a stop at a red light. Mohinder was beginning to recognize street names; after an hour and a half of driving they were closing in on Harris' house. The geneticist gazed at a small house with a black and white dog running around its yard, wondered about Harris and about what the man had done after his fight with Sylar. Had he gone to the police? Maybe reported that Mohinder had been kidnapped?

_Not likely_. Being attacked by a villain with super powers wasn't exactly a normal or believable occurrence The police would have thought the man was a lunatic. If Harris had any sense at all he would have _fled_. And Harris running meant no chance of someone knowing about Sylar's return. Meant no one knowing Mohinder had been kidnapped by a serial killer.

"You mentioned that Harris was the one who...threw me. He didn't touch me." The geneticist stopped; shot a look at Sylar. The man said nothing, so Mohinder plowed on.

"If that's true, then that would mean that he threw me with...that Harris' ability is probably telekinesis. Or something like it."

Sylar grunted. Perhaps to assure the geneticist he was listening. Perhaps for some other reason entirely. Mohinder continued.

"And if what Harris can do is telekinesis..."

"What?" asked Sylar. The car came to a complete stop. The sound of its engine running cut off. They had reached Jake Harris' house. Sylar had parked a few feet behind the geneticist's rented Kia Rio. The silver vehicle was still sitting in front of Harris' mailbox – hulking, abandoned. "What are you saying, Mohinder?"

"You've already...acquired that ability. You've mastered it. If Harris is telekinetic you don't need to kill him." He paused. "_Why_ kill him?" And suddenly Mohinder felt foolish. He knew why – even without the need for the man's power – Sylar wanted to kill Jake Harris. Harris had survived a violent attack from the murderer, had managed to escape him. Sylar was probably intrigued and threatened by the man – and so, without a doubt, would strive to hunt down and destroy him. The geneticist knew this. Had known. _But I had to try_, he thought and tried to shake the strangely embarrassed, foolish feeling that had overtaken him. _I had to say something. Try_ something.

Sylar let go of the steering wheel and leaned back in his seat. A smile that showed teeth graced his face for a moment, then vanished. "You're right," he said. He eyed the geneticist for a long moment. Then, suddenly, he jerked his neck to the side. Mohinder's seat belt snapped loose; he jumped. "I have..._mastered_ telekinesis." The taller man reach to unbuckle his own seat belt, leaned in close to his captive. "But I'm almost positive Jake Harris' special talent isn't telekinesis. And after what he did – what he _tried_ to do – it wouldn't matter if it was." Mohinder felt invisible fingers (the invisible touches were becoming almost familiar – it was unnerving) brush his arm; flinched. "Let's go."

Mohinder dropped the food in his hand onto the car's seat, stuffed the cold coffee back into the cup holder. Then he pushed open the passenger's side door and stumbled out onto the pavement. Sylar was already out of the car and strolling up the walk that led to Harris' front door. The geneticist followed him. They hurried up the walk, climbed the wooden steps up to the wraparound porch. The door was already slightly ajar. The serial killer pushed it in further. The door's hinges creaked; the tiny hairs at the back of Mohinder's neck stood straight up.

And they both moved forward, into the house.


	4. Chapter 4

AN: Much thanks to those who have commented! Comments make my day. Sorry about the wait for this one. It took a little longer to write than I thought it would. This probably isn't the most exciting chapter (it's mostly just necessary build-up) -- the halfway point of this story is fast approaching, and things should heat up/get interesting in Part Five.

**Part Four**

1614 Bloomfield Avenue was quiet and still. Mohinder was standing in the living room – his brown eyes sweeping over the worn and sagging recliner, the pea green couch, the large window (sunlight was shining through the gaps in the blinds that were covering the window, lending a comfortable glow to the otherwise dark room). The coffee table was on its side. The television had toppled over; shards of what had once been its screen littered the carpet.

"He's not here," came Sylar's voice. And then in a softer tone, "No one's here." The killer was in Harris' kitchen.

Mohinder said nothing. Despite the anxiety he'd felt (a tightness in his throat, a horrible pulling feeling in his gut) while stepping into Jake Harris' house and walking down the narrow entrance hallway that led into the sitting room he'd been fairly sure – somewhere in the back of his mind – that the serial killer was intelligent enough that he wouldn't have marched into the house of someone he considered dangerous in quite so careless a fashion if that person had been home. Sylar had probably heard the lack of movement or a heartbeat inside of the house before they'd even parked and stepped out of the Ford.

And Harris...Jake Harris had _fled_. Had disappeared just as Mohinder had assumed he would. _Thankfully. If Harris hadn't fled, if he'd stayed... _ The geneticist's mind conjured up images of a limp and bleeding Jake Harris, of Sylar leaning over the older man, of himself watching in stunned horror as Harris screamed and -

_Stop_, he thought. Breathed.

He took a step forward; faltered when he heard a _crunch_ sound and felt something give under his tennis shoe. The glass from the television. He maneuvered around it, moved toward the kitchen (he could hear what sounded like the killer shutting and opening drawers and cabinets, shuffling their contents around) – stopped abruptly when he caught sight of something on the floor. Something black, mirror like. It was a cell phone, _his_ cell phone (he realized it must have fallen out of his pocket two nights before when he'd been knocked unconscious). The phone was on the shag carpet next to the overturned coffee table, scattered amongst gray and black ash and pieces of what had once been an ashtray. Sunlight was reflecting off of the black plastic that was the cell phone's frame, making it shine.

Mohinder swallowed. Shot a quick, somewhat panicked look at the open air doorway that was the entrance to the kitchen. Having his cell phone would be a good thing – a very good thing. He could keep it hidden from Sylar until the opportunity arose to call someone. It would be much easier than first trying to escape his captor and _then_ trying to contact someone. It was something that he might actually be able to pull off.

The geneticist stepped over to the mess of ash and broken pieces of ashtray; knelt. He reached for the cell phone (its screen was blank – the phone was off), shoved it into his jacket's inside pocket. Then he tensed to get up – paused when he spotted the edge of what looked like a rather ragged paper peaking out from under the recliner. Automatically, he reached for the paper; looked at it.

It was a photo. A black and white photo of two people – a young man and a girl standing in front of a large, somewhat old fashioned car. The man was smiling and had his arm thrown casually over the little girl's shoulders. The girl's face was pudgy with baby fat, and it looked as if whoever had been working the camera had caught her in the middle of a laugh. Mohinder stared at the photo; wondered if the man in it was a young Jake Harris.

_Maybe_, he thought. The picture _had_ been tucked under a chair in Harris' house. And the young man smiling in the photo certainly looked enough like Jake Harris' that it could be a picture of him from years before. The geneticist's eyes strayed to the little girl in the picture. _Who-_

"Nothing," said Sylar from somewhere close. Mohinder shot up from the floor, spun around. The serial killer was looming in the kitchen's gaping doorway; staring.

"What?" asked Mohinder, startled.

The killer didn't answer. He walked slowly over to the geneticist, gestured at the photo. "What is that?"

Mohinder looked down at the picture; shrugged. "I just...it was under the chair." And suddenly his throat felt like it might close up, was closing up. What if the man had seen him kneel? Had seen him grab the cell phone and stuff it in his pocket?

_No_, he thought, trying to calm himself. _No, he didn't see._

Sylar took the photo from him. The serial killer stared at it with what appeared to be disinterest for a few seconds, then pushed it back into Mohinder's grasp. "There's nothing useful here," he said. "Let's go."

But the man didn't move. He just pursed his lips, narrowed his eyes to slits, stared with a frown at the furniture surrounding them.

Mohinder folded the already creased, old photo in half before shoving it into his left jacket pocket. "What were you hoping to find?" he pried. The killer didn't answer – but the geneticist could guess. Sylar had probably been looking to find something that would tell him where Harris had disappeared to, had perhaps even been hoping for something that would explain Harris and his ability. Something that would reveal just how in the world the older man had been able to escape, to _rival_ the powerful killer.

"What..." Mohinder started, then trailed off. He looked again at the thrashed living room -- the shattered television and the uprooted coffee table and the ash from the broken ashtray smudged into the carpet. "How did he get away from you?" Sylar turned to look at him. "You said Mr. Harris' ability isn't telekinesis. So what is it? How did he get away from you? What did he do?"

Sylar shook his head. "I don't know," he said. He looked troubled.

Mohinder blinked. "Wha-"

"I threw that bastard at the wall, I launched razor sharp shards of _ice_ at him." The killer stopped; gazed directly into the geneticist's eyes. "But..." A pause. "It was almost like..." he trailed off. Didn't continue.

"Like what?"

Sylar shook his head again. His mouth curved into a grin. "Always the curious scientist," he said. His grin shifted to an ugly scowl. He placed one large hand on Mohinder's shoulder; slid the hand up until he was partially gripping his captive's neck. "Jake Harris doesn't _matter_. What Harris can do doesn't matter. I'm going to find him and I'm going to end him." The hand on the geneticist's neck tightened. Mohinder jerked away and out of reach, and the killer let him. "That's all that matters, Mohinder." He backed away, started for the door. "Let's go."

Mohinder breathed.

What the serial killer claimed wasn't true. Not at all. Jake Harris and his ability _did_ matter. Because Harris' house was where the geneticist had been when he'd discovered that the super powered serial killer many people thought dead was actually very much alive. Because Harris was an innocent man -- probably a man with a family and friends -- and Sylar was striving to murder him. Because Harris had gone up against Sylar and had _survived_. The man might very well be the only one (considering the fact that Peter Petrelli was missing and possibly dead) capable of stopping the killer.  
_  
He might be the only one capable of saving_ me.

Mohinder worked at his bottom lip with his teeth. The cell phone in his pocket felt unnaturally heavy. He took a last long look at the thrashed living room, hurried down the entrance hallway and out the front door.

Sylar was shoving one of his bags into the silver Kia Rio. The geneticist could see the rest of the man's luggage, along with the leather messenger bag Mohinder had left in the car when he'd first visitied Harris, already piled on the car's back seat. "Time to change vehicles," he said. And, "You're driving." The serial killer dropped into the passenger's seat, slammed the car door.

Mohinder felt like screaming, like running, like doing anything but what his captor was telling him to do. _Pick your battles._

He shot a look at the now abandoned Ford, then walked around to the Kia's driver's side and got in. "Where to?" he asked, fingers closing tight around the steering wheel. And then his thoughts turned to the vehicle's keys. _Where did I put them?_ he wondered. _Did I drop them in Harris house or -_

Sylar's wrist jerked and the car's engine came to life.

"Just...drive. I'll tell you when to stop."

The geneticist put the little silver car in 'drive', pulled away from the tan Ford and from 1614 Bloomfield Avenue.


	5. Chapter 5

Strange Condition  
by Harikari

AN: Here's part five. Hope it doesn't disappoint. Much thanks to those who have commented! Feedback (good? bad? errors?) is love.

**Part Five**

Warm beads of water rained down onto Mohinder's naked skin. The water flowed in rivulets down his lean body – shoulders, back, legs – before pooling momentarily in the bathtub, disappearing down the drain.

The geneticist suppressed a pleased groan. The warmth and steady pressure of the water spraying from the shower head felt good on his bruised limbs; served as a soothing balm to his tired, overtaxed muscles. He wanted to stand under the spray until the entire bathroom was filled with steam, until the cracked mirror above the sink was fogged up and the plastic shower curtain was sweating with moisture.

With a frustrated huff he reached for the small bottle of shampoo that was sitting on the metal shower rack attached to the wall, dumped some of the bluish goo out onto his palm. Then he placed the bottle back on the rack and started to work the shampoo into his hair.

He couldn't allow himself a leisurely shower. Not only was the thought of his kidnapper a wall away, maybe listening to his every move, making his skin crawl. When – tired of staring at the droning television the rented room provided – he had stood and started gathering a change of clothes Sylar had made a point of ordering him not to take too long in the shower, of telling him that they would be 'going out' soon.

The suds of shampoo washed from his hair, slid over his body and down the drain. He turned the water off and stepped out of the tub. Then he grabbed for the towel hanging on the towel rack; quickly dried himself off and started to dress.

Without the sound of the running shower Mohinder could hear the television on in the other room (it sounded like a sitcom was on). He listened to punch lines and a laugh track as he shaved, brushed his teeth, ran a comb through his unruly hair. When he was finished he picked up his things, unlocked and shoved open the bathroom door.

The geneticist took a deep breath, stood in the doorway and stared around the room. The day before, shortly after leaving Harris' house, Sylar had ordered him to pull into the cramped parking lot of the rather dingy looking, multi-storied building (a neon sign out front had declared 'VACANCY') that they were staying in now.

Mohinder moved to stuff his balled up shirt and jeans into the duffel bag the killer had pointed out was for dirty clothes (he assumed this meant the man intended to make use of the inn's laundry room and pay washers soon); stared around at the two beds and the flashing television and the thin carpet. The room wasn't very different from the one Sylar had first trapped him in – it was a little larger, had a table with two chairs (presumably for eating or working), and the television was up high in one corner and bolted to the wall.

The geneticist sighed, dropped onto the bed he'd been forced to adopt (this bed was farthest from the exit, also). _Already two days_, he thought, memories of the several days he'd spent with the serial killer so far sliding through his mind. On the first day – just yesterday – he and Sylar had gone to Harris' house, liberated his rented Kia Rio and found this room. On the second day – just hours earlier – they had made a short trip to the large department store across from the inn they were staying at (the killer had insisted on buying him boxers and an assortment of other items – the purchases suggested that the man was planning on keeping him captive for quite a while, and he couldn't decide if that was a good thing or not considering he was the captive of a violent individual he'd been fairly sure would murder him on sight a few days ago_). Already the third night. _He could hardly believe it. Could hardly believe that he had been in Sylar's custody for so long, that he had been in the man's custody for so long and was still _alive_...

_I don't understand_, thought Mohinder, yet again. _None of this makes any sense._

The geneticist raised his arms in a stretch; decided that dissecting the confusing situation he was in over and over again in his head was not helping him. Constantly trying to figure out what the serial killer's motive had been for kidnapping him in the first place, trying to figure out what horrible thing was going to be demanded of him or when Sylar was finally going to snap and murder him was only serving to agitate and unnerve him. He needed to concentrate on escape. He needed to focus on the _here_ and the _now_. He needed to focus on everything that was happening around him so that if an opportunity to get away suddenly arose he could take advantage of it. Escaping was important. _Molly _was important. Not Harris. Not Sylar and the man's reasons for keeping him captive.

Mohinder closed his eyes; thought fondly of warm water running across his skin, held back a yawn. "Where are we going?" he ventured after a moment, then grabbed for his shoes and the clean pair of socks he'd left thrown on top of the shabby looking comforter. When there was no answer he frowned; turned. Sylar was facing away from him, hunched over and perched on the edge of his own adopted bed.

"Where are we going?" he asked again, angry at being ignored.

And again, there was no answer. No indication at all that the man had heard the question.

Mohinder dropped the pair of socks. His eyes narrowed. "Sylar?" He stood. Stepped closer to the serial killer. "_Sylar?_"

The geneticist swallowed. _He's been hurt_. _Stabbed. And he's been _hurting. _I _know _his wound has been bothering him. Maybe... _

He reached out. His fingers ghosted over the killer's shirt, loosely gripped his shoulder. He opened his mouth to ask the man before him if he was feeling okay, to offer to get ice from the machine he'd spotted in the hallway earlier (it might help the pain), to...

_No. _He stopped himself before he could speak, ripped his hand away from its place on his captive's shoulder. _Idiot._

Mohinder felt suddenly disgusted with himself; his throat tightened, the taste of bile teased at the back of his tongue. He swallowed hard, pursed his lips. Sylar was a murderer, a kidnapper. It was a _good _thing he was hurting, not something to worry over. The killer hurting could mean his guard was down. Could mean possibly, _finally_ getting away.

The geneticist took another cautious step forward; strained to look over the killer's back. His eyes widened when he saw that the man was not, in fact, curled around his abdomen in pain. Instead, there was a pen in Sylar's left hand, an open sketch notebook on his lap. The serial killer was bent over the sketch notebook, was drawing.

"What-" Mohinder caught sight of something on the floor (something that looked familiar, something that sent an abrupt and unexplainable chill up his spine), next to his captive's shoe. His heart pounding in his ears, he moved so that he was standing in front of the murderer – gasped when he saw that Sylar's eyes had gone entirely white. Blank. No pupil, no iris...just _white. _

_Like Isaac Mendez._ The geneticist paled as he recalled one of his earliest meetings with Peter Petrelli. Peter had gone on about Isaac Mendez, a man who could paint the future. And later, after Kirby Plaza and the explosion, Noah Bennet had mentioned Mendez. Had talked about the man and how very important his paintings were, had even described what he had witnessed when the artist had utilized his power. _White eyes. Completely white – no iris, no pupil._

_He killed Isaac Mendez._ Mohinder breathed in deep, stared at his oblivious kidnapper. _He can draw the future._ His eyes strayed to the thick, black lines the killer had already drawn in the open sketchpad on his knees. _I should run. I should..._ His breath hitched. With Sylar so distracted he could call Niki Sanders or Bennet; could perhaps escape. He shot a look at his jacket (it was hanging over one of the wooden chairs, next to the room's table), thought about leaving the room. He could use the cell phone he'd shoved into his coat's inside pocket to call someone as he left.

He backed away from the killer; stopped when he again caught sight of the familiar item on the floor, tucked close to his captive's shoe. It was the black, college ruled notebook he'd managed to kick out of and away from one of the serial killer's duffel bags the first night he'd been held captive. He'd noticed when Sylar had grabbed the notebook and put it under his pillow that first night. Had witnessed the man absorbed with the thing – gazing intensely at it, fingering its pages – the previous morning, before they'd set out for Harris' house.

The geneticist stared down at the notebook._ I can take it with me_, he thought. _I can take it with me and look through it later._ It was obviously important to the killer. It might contain some vital information. Possibly life saving information.

_I'll take it with me_, thought Mohinder.

And, filled with a sudden sense of urgency (the killer _seemed_ sufficiently preoccupied, but he had no idea how the man's ability to view the future worked or how long the vision would last), he stepped forward; bent to swipe the notebook from the floor. Notebook in hand he turned – stopped dead when a single piece of paper, a piece of paper that had been folded and trapped between the pages of the notebook, fluttered slowly to the carpeted floor.

Mohinder kneeled. Grabbed the single paper up from the floor. It was folded in half, unlined, and looked like the paper the serial killer had been studying the previous morning; _was_ the paper the killer had been studying. Deciding that one quick (very, very quick) look at the sheet of paper that had so enthralled his captive couldn't hurt, he set the notebook in his free hand aside. Unfolded the paper.

It was a drawing. The geneticist took in the heavy strokes of what looked like mostly red, black, and brown colored pencil; stopped breathing.

It was a drawing of Sylar, and of him. In the depiction it was night and it was snowing. They were standing outside between two hulking buildings, illuminated in a circle of soft light. He was looking up and clutching at the other man's shoulder. Sylar was looking down, was gripping Mohinder's waist. They were pressed close and leaning closer. It looked as if they were about to…about to _kiss_.

There was a signature – a thin, black tangle of letters – on the lower right of the sketch._ Isaac Mendez_, it read.

_NO! IT'S A LIE. IT'S…_

"Drop it," came an angry voice. And a large hand was abruptly, painfully gripping his wrist.

Mohinder gasped, winced. "Sy…Sylar," he managed; tore his gaze away from the drawing, looked into his captor's eyes. "What the hell is this? What…" he trailed off.

"You weren't supposed to see it," said Sylar. "Not until…" His eyes narrowed, seemed to darken. His grip on the geneticist's wrist tightened. "You weren't supposed to _see_ it."

Mohinder felt ill; tried to pull away, stopped when all that achieved was a sharp, sudden pain that started at his wrist and shot through his entire arm.

Sylar let out a sound that was something between a growl and a scream. "_Why_? What did you...? You weren't-" he started again, but the geneticist cut him off.

"I won't help you," he said in a low voice. "I won't _help_ you, Sylar. I'm not going to give you the list, I'm not going to teach you how to compile a list of your own, I'm not going to quietly tag along while you hunt down and _murder_ innocent people like Jake Harris. And…" He shot a look at the wrist the other man was holding, at the drawing still in his restrained hand. "And I'm certainly not going to…" Unable to even say the words, he trailed off. "Why are you doing this? What do you want?"

Sylar said nothing at first. He stared at Mohinder. He looked lost and furious all at the same time. He was breathing hard and fast.

"You want to know what it is I _want_ from you, Mohinder?" he asked after a long, quiet moment had crept by. The hand grasping the geneticist's wrist tightened, then pulled. Mohinder gasped at the shock of pain; was forced to stand. The drawing fell to the floor. "I'll show you."

Mohinder's chest tightened. His gut twisted. "No-" he managed and tried pull away, turn. But before he could get out anything else, before cold fear had fully overtaken his limbs, Sylar's arm had wrapped around his waist. The killer _lifted_, threw him roughly onto the bed.

Mohinder moved to scramble away as soon as his back hit the bed; was stopped by powerful, invisible hands that forced his arms over his head and pinned his legs flat. He squirmed, _bucked_. But he couldn't break free.

"It's not supposed to be this way," said Sylar. And he sank onto the bed; fell to all fours and crawled so that he was looming directly over the geneticist, staring into his wide and frightened eyes. He bent so that his mouth was close to his captive's ear. "You weren't supposed to _see_. Why do you do this? Why do you always _ruin _us? Why can't you…" He trailed off.

Mohinder, still struggling, closed his eyes at the feeling of the killer's mouth moving away from his ear. The warm moisture moved down; stopped at his neck. "Stop," he said in a small, shaky voice when he felt a warm, wet pressure on his skin (Sylar _kissing_ him, he realized). The warm wetness let up for a second; was replaced with a burst of sharp pain.

The geneticist let out a wordless shout at the pain; realized the larger man was actually _biting _him. At this a horrible, breathtaking terror blossomed like something physical in Mohinder's chest. "Stop!" And this time he screamed it. "Please!" His voice had broken; his face was wet. "_Sylar_. Stop!"

And, quite suddenly, the killer did stop.

Sylar pulled away from him; stared (Mohinder had started crying without realizing it, was shaking even with the killer's telekinesis holding him down). His face – twisted with fury and determination only moments before – _changed_, went blank. The invisible hands let up, the serial killer moved slowly away. Stood.

"Just…" Sylar started, faltered. "Go to sleep, Mohinder. We..." A pause. "Go to sleep." And with that he turned away, dropped onto the bed nearest the bathroom. His arm came up, his wrist twitched, and the lights and television went out.

Mohinder blinked; shifted so that he was on his side, curled into a fetal position. The bite on his neck was throbbing. In the dark, he could make out a square shape on the floor – it was the drawing.

_Don't fall asleep_, thought the geneticist. _Don't fall asleep_.

But it was his third night with his kidnapper. And it seemed like he hadn't slept in forever, and his neck hurt, and his limbs were heavy and sore, and his face was wet with tears he hadn't meant to cry, and his heart was beating much too fast, and he wasn't sure what had just happened or what was going to happen or what he could do about it…

After a long while his frantic heartbeat slowed, leveled out. His eyes drifted shut. He fell asleep, the sound of Sylar's breathing loud in his ears.


	6. Chapter 6

AN: Much thanks to those who have commented! Happy reading. And, as always, feedback is love.

**Part Six**

The diner was two buildings down from the motel. It was small, a square stretch of space filled with worn red booths, wooden tables and enclosed by walls of scratched plexiglass.

Mohinder sat at a booth tucked into a corner of the diner. He was staring dazedly down at his toast.

"Mohinder," said Sylar, and the geneticist looked up. The killer was sitting directly across from his captive; he'd speared some scrambled eggs with his fork, was holding the utensil a few inches away from his mouth. "You need to eat."

Mohinder narrowed his eyes. Then, slowly, he reached for his squat glass of orange juice. Sipped at it.

Sylar watched him. When the geneticist placed the glass back onto the table after only a few tentative drinks and didn't reach for his toast the killer frowned, dropped his fork. It landed on his plate, still laden with scrambled eggs, with a sharp _clang_ sound.

An old man and woman sitting near the door and a young woman a few tables away – the only other patrons in the small resturaunt – turned and stared. Mohinder flinched; then he clenched his teeth, angry at himself for the involuntary display of fear.

"Fine," hissed Sylar. His lips pursed and his eyebrows drew together in a show of anger. He held up his hand to get the attention of the diner's lone on-duty waitress. She was stepping out from behind the long counter that ran almost the length of the entire diner, carrying a pot of steaming coffee (to offer her few customers refills, Mohinder presumed). She stopped short when she saw the serial killer's gesture. "Check," he said. And she nodded.

Mohinder turned back to his untouched toast, turned away from his captor's heated gaze. A tense and quiet minute crawled by. And then the waitress was dropping the bill onto their table. "Here you go," she said. "You gentlemen have a nice day."

"Thank you," managed the geneticist.

Sylar looked at the bill, then slipped his wallet from his pocket. He pulled a twenty from the wallet and stuffed it into the miniature, faux leather folder the bill was tucked in.

"Come on," he said, and stood.

Mohinder stood, too. He followed the killer. Stopped suddenly when they reached the door that led out to the parking lot. "I..." he started, hesitated when Sylar's dark eyes met his. "I need to stop off," he said – felt an embarrassed heat make its way up his neck, then spread across his entire face.

The serial killer eyed him. Mohinder fought the urge to squirm and wondered if the taller man could actually _listen_ for that sort of thing with his enhanced hearing. If he could hear the inner workings of a person's body and deduce what exactly was happening inside of it.

"You have five minutes," proclaimed the killer after a moment. His gaze swept away from his captive. Locked on to a pair of doors, one marked with a male sign and the other with a female sign, that were the dead end to a little alcove across the diner. "One second over that and I'm coming to get you."

Mohinder gave a tight nod; watched as Sylar pushed open the door and stepped outside. He walked across the diner, passed the young woman sitting at a tiny table (she shot a smile at him as he went by), reached the little hallway and entered the bathroom.

--

Mohinder stepped out of the stall, walked to the sink. Once he was finished washing up he reached for a paper towel; stared into the mirror as he dried his hands.

He tossed the bunched up paper towel into the trash can near the sink, studied his reflection. Despite the fact that he'd slept the night before his face looked unhealthy and pale, his eyes sunken. There was a reddish mark near the collar of his shirt, at the juncture between his shoulder and his neck; it was the spot where Sylar had bitten him – the serial killer hadn't actually broken skin with his teeth, but the bite looked irritated and bruised.

_Sylar..._bit _me.  
_  
Mohinder swallowed. He really didn't want to think about it. About _that_. He'd already replayed the disturbing scene with Sylar the night before numerous times in his head. He'd even been forced to relive the event in his dreams, had as a result spent most of that morning dry heaving at the memories of the killer's large body looming over his own and the feel of moist breath against his flesh, standing in the shower and scrubbing his skin until it stung.

_I should have known_, thought the geneticist. And it was true. He _should_ have known.

He should have guessed what Sylar wanted because, before, he'd guessed what _Zane_ wanted. Because Zane had been all longing looks and meaningful speaches and glancing touches. And because Mohinder himself, despite never having been with another man romantically and despite never having had any wish to be with a man, had picked up on those things. Those signals. Had not been completely put off by them, had even...

Mohinder took a deep breath. _This isn't helping_, he realized, and tried to push most of his troubling thoughts to the back of his mind. Attempted to focus on what mattered most – on staying alive, on escape.

A cool rush of air blew in from the single, small window in the bathroom. The geneticist shivered as goosebumps rose on his skin. He zipped up his jacket and stuffed his hands into his pockets in search of his gloves. His fingers hit something solid. He froze.

_The phone.  
_  
And he moved, pulled the cell phone from his pocket. It was still turned off; its screen was still blank and its plastic frame was still cold despite having been in his jacket's pocket, tucked close to his body.  
_  
He said five minutes._ The geneticist licked his lips, hoped that when Sylar had said five minutes he'd meant five minutes of _complete_ privacy. (And he realized a brief moment later that that was a foolish hope, that even if the serial killer wasn't listening in he'd already used up a significant chunk of his time alone).

He turned on the phone, watched as it lit up. As soon as the main screen was loaded he scrolled through speed dial, called Niki Sanders. He lifted the phone to his ear. Almost immediately there was a loud beeping.

He pulled the phone away. The words CALL FAILED were dominating the screen. Mohinder cursed, went back to the main screen and saw that there were no bars. No signal.

_Damn it._

He sighed; almost without thinking scrolled to voice mail and selected it. His phone was strange. Sometimes he could call voice mail and get his messages even when his signal was non-existent.

An automated voice sounded in his ear. He had five new messages. The first message began to play.

It was Molly, asking him why he hadn't called to talk and assuring him that no matter what time he called Niki and D.L. would let her talk to him and reciting Niki's cell number just in case he'd forgotten it. The third message was from Niki. She sounded equal parts worried and annoyed, asked why he hadn't called Molly and informed him that Matt Parkman was doing well and told him that if he needed anything he shouldn't hesitate to call her. The fourth message was Bennet – 'call me', he ordered before hanging up. The final message was Molly again.

_"Hi Mohinder."_ Her voice sounded tinny and small coming through the phone. _"It's me. I...um. Are you okay? Because you always call me, and you haven't called me."_ She sounded scared, on the verge of tears, young. _"I've searched for you, and you're still in New York and you said that's where you were going to be so I guess that's good."_ There was a short pause, a moment of just breathing. _"Um. We're at your apartment. I used the key you gave me before. And don't worry because I've got Mohinder now and D.L. says I can take care of him until we find...see you."_ The geneticist's mind reeled for a moment at that, then he realized she was talking about his lizard. His father's poor pet lizard. _"Just...call me, okay?"_ Another pause, some background noise. _"Someone's at the door..." _More noise, as if Molly was moving.

And then there was Niki's voice. And then some deep rumbling that must have been a male voice. Maybe two male voices. "...Harris..." he thought he heard Niki say after a moment. "...sounds like...Kirby..."

_"Okay. I love you see you soon bye."_ Molly's parting came suddenly and in a rush.

Then nothing.

Mohinder blinked and turned off the phone. He shoved it back into his pocket. He walked out of the bathroom, made his way across the diner (the girl who had flashed him a smile was gone). He pushed open the door and stepped outside.

Sylar was leaning against the Kia's hood. He straightened when he saw the geneticist, walked around to the driver's side and got in the car. Mohinder walked to the passenger's side and also slid in.

"Okay," said the serial killer as the car rumbled to life. He didn't complain about how long his captive had taken, didn't act like he'd overheard the phone use. "Let's get going. We've got some...errands to run before we leave."

The geneticist started at that. "Leave?"

The killer nodded and put the car in reverse. "New York. We've got some things to take care of before we leave New York."

Mohinder sank back in his seat. He felt overwhelmed, frightened, delirious with hope.

Niki Sanders and her family were looking for him. Molly was looking for him. And they had, apparently, found Jake Harris.

They had found Harris. A man who had gone up against Sylar once and survived. A man who might be willing to go up against the serial killer again, a man capable of saving _him_.

Mohinder breathed in deep; stared out the smeared car window and thought about Niki and Molly and danger and love and the fact that Niki and D.L. had thought him important enough to go from Las Vegas to New York when he'd gone missing.

He blinked again, noticed that the late morning sky was gray with heavy clouds. Noticed it was snowing.


	7. Chapter 7

**AN: Sorry for the long wait! Here's part seven. Only about two parts (probably rather long parts) to go. Hope you enjoy! Feedback is love. Also? Feel free to let me know if you notice any horrible, glaring mistakes. :)**

--

**Part Seven**

"What is this?" asked Mohinder.

Night had fallen. He and the killer were sitting in the Kia, which was parallel parked outside of a plain looking three story building. The building stood silent, buttery light shining through a few of its square windows. Sylar was leaning forward in his seat – his chest was pressed against the steering wheel, his head turned at an awkward angle.

_He's listening_, the geneticist realized. The serial killer was listening intently to something or someone inside of the building, perhaps even (considering his unnatural hearing) to someone or something a mile away.

Mohinder shifted in his seat. Worked at his bottom lip with his teeth. "Where are we?" he tried. When Sylar still didn't answer he sighed. He didn't need an answer from the other man, he could guess where they were and what they were doing there. They were probably parked just outside of an apartment building where a person – likely an innocent, unsuspecting person – with a special ability lived. And Sylar was probably planning on killing that person. Soon. _Tonight_.

That morning, before they had pulled away from the little diner and before they had headed back to the inn where the geneticist had been forced to wait in the rented room while his captor had done laundry (honestly, _laundry_) and before they had checked out of the inn, the killer had mentioned that he had some 'things' to take care of.

Mohinder had no doubt that they were in the middle of taking care of one of those aforementioned things. Had little doubt that whatever they were taking care of – whatever the other man had planned – would end in violence, in blood.

"I told you before. I'm not-" he started calmly, but was cut off.

"It's quiet," said Sylar as he turned in his seat. His dark eyes met the geneticist's.

Mohinder pursed his lips. "What is?" he asked after a moment. "The building?"

There was a pause, a beat of stillness. The serial killer's eyes didn't stray from his captive's.

"Why are we here, Sylar?" asked the geneticist when the silence had stretched too long. "Are we..." He trailed off. "You're going to kill someone, aren't you?"

The killer opened his mouth as if to answer; turned abruptly when one of the building's main doors creaked open. A woman emerged. She seemed to be in a hurry; her high heels clicked loudly against the sidewalk as she strode toward a compact car that was parallel parked a space ahead of the Kia. There was the sound of keys jingling, the _pop_ of an opening door. Mohinder watched along with Sylar as the little car's interior light switched on, as the slim figure of the woman slipped into the vehicle. The car's door snapped shut. Seconds slid by, and then the car's headlights were shining, its engine was purring – the woman pulled away.

_It's a cold night_, mused Mohinder. _She should have warmed it up_.

"We should go," came the killer's deep voice. The geneticist turned. Saw that the other man was squinting at the face of the watch fastened around his wrist.

Mohinder tensed at the sight of the watch. Memories rose up suddenly from the depths of his mind. The vivid dream he'd had of his father's murder, a dimly lit apartment with writing on its walls, the mangled corpse of an innocent mechanic, Zane's smile.

Mohinder closed his eyes. Realized the bite on his neck was throbbing.

"Come on," said Sylar. And then he was opening his door, his tall form unfolding out of the driver's seat. Cold, moist air rushed into the car as the driver's side door slammed shut. The geneticist shivered, but didn't reach for his door handle.

"Mohinder," urged the serial killer. His voice sounded vague coming from behind the tightly shut window, distracted. He was gazing at the building. Thinking, probably. _Planning_.

"I told you when..." Mohinder started, faltered. "I told you before that I'm not going to _help_ you, Sylar. I won't-"

The passenger's side door exploded outward. The geneticist jumped in his seat; stared open mouthed at the now open door.

"Get out," ordered Sylar. The geneticist shot a look at his captor. The other man was looking at him with narrowed eyes. His arms were straight at his sides, his hands were clenched into fists. "_Now_, Mohinder."

Suddenly, the invisible hands were back. Gripping hard at his elbow, pushing at him, _forcing_...

"_Stop_," hissed Mohinder. The hands stopped pushing, stopped pulling. But the grip on his elbow stayed firm. Muscles tense, breathing fast with anger, the geneticist stared at the killer with hard eyes. The killer stared back.

At a loss, Mohinder slid to the edge of his seat; got out of the car.

"Good boy," breathed Sylar, already studying the building again, and the geneticist seethed.

--

The night air was crisp. The light snowfall had let up around noon – had left the city wet and dreary. Heavy gray-black clouds hid the stars, hung low and threatening in the sky.

They climbed two squat, cement steps to reach the building's double entrance doors. The serial killer closed his eyes; there was a series of clicking sounds, both knobs turned and the doors swung wide.

They headed immediately for the elevator at the back of the lobby. Sylar pushed a button, and they rode silently up to the third floor. There was a _ding_. The elevator doors opened to reveal a long and dimly lit hallway.

Without a word, the killer started down the hallway. Mohinder followed him.

"Okay " said Sylar when they'd reached a door at the very end of the hall (the door was blue and had a cheap, metal 3F fastened to it just below its fish eye). He grabbed at the geneticist's shoulders and pushed him back; forced him flush against the door directly opposite apartment 3F's. Mohinder swallowed and hoped no one on the floor would hear them, hoped no one would try to confront Sylar and get themselves hurt or killed. "Stay here. Don't move."

_Don't move._

Yet again, the geneticist found himself wanting to argue. He wanted to demand that Sylar tell him what exactly he was planning, wanted to do _something_ to prevent the ugliness he knew was coming. Instead, he reminded himself of Molly and the others and of his resolve to avoid conflict with the serial killer and keep himself alive so that he might warn them, so that he might tell them that the dangerous man they thought dead was very much alive.

He nodded. The killer gave his shoulders a painful squeeze, then let go.

The geneticist watched as the serial killer turned to face 3F, as the door _wushed_ open as if of its own volition. Watched Sylar step into the apartment and disappear from sight.

Mohinder held his breath, closed his eyes and waited. Waited for what he wasn't quite sure. For screams (which was, he would realize later, ridiculous because the serial killer was skilled enough that he wouldn't give his victim or victims a chance to scream when there was the risk of being heard and interrupted), for maniacal laughter, furniture being upset, the myriad of sounds that would come with a struggle.

But a long moment crept by and there was nothing. No sound. No movement.

The geneticist opened his eyes. Allowed himself to breath again. _Maybe no one is home_, he thought and raised his arms to fold them over his chest. _He said it was quiet. Maybe-_

There was a crinkling sound. Like a piece of paper being smashed, like...

The photo. Mohinder reached into his jacket's front pocket and pulled out the now slightly bent looking black and white photo of a little girl and (he assumed) a young Jake Harris. He frowned. He'd stuffed the picture into his pocket days ago, while rifling through Harris' wrecked living room – and he'd promptly forgotten about. He couldn't, in fact, recall why he'd bothered to keep the thing at all.

_I must have just...tucked it away without thinking_, reasoned Mohinder. It made sense. He'd been worried that Sylar had witnessed him grab the cell phone at the time, had been nervous and distracted.

The geneticist's eyes moved to the apartment's gaping door. Still nothing. He turned back to the photo, absently flipped it over.

J AND D, the back of the photo read in blocky letters. And just below that: FALL, 1969.

"_Nothing_," hissed Sylar from 3F's doorway. Mohinder, caught off guard, flinched. "I don't understand this," the killer went on, his voice harsh with anger. He spotted the photo in the geneticist's hand and, without a word, strode forward and grabbed it. "What-" he started, faltered suddenly when he glanced at the picture. He paused, squinted at something or someone in the picture with great attention for a second. Then he shook his head, smashed the photo in his fist and let it fall to the floor.

Mohinder stared. "What don't you understand?" he ventured after a moment of gazing blankly at the ruined photo on the floor. He turned away from the crumpled bit of paper; met Sylar's furious eyes.

"She was supposed to be here," said the killer in a low voice. "There's no reason...I watched her." His teeth clenched in a grimace. "I only left for Harris... Taking, _having_ you slowed me down but..." he trailed off. "Something is wrong," he announced after a moment. "Someone-"

"You've been _stalking_ her," broke in Mohinder. It wasn't a question. His tone was harsh, and his eyes were narrowed. He was suddenly sick, furious. "You were stalking this woman and..." His dark eyes widened. "You... You were going to kill Harris, and then you were going to kill her. Only Harris didn't die. Only..."

_The woman isn't here for him to kill. Why isn't she here for him to kill?_

Sylar was staring at him, expressionless. _I'm being an imbecile_, thought Mohinder, combing slender fingers through his hair. _I knew. I've known all along that he was out for murder. I just...can't do anything about it. Won't do anything. Because the others..._

The anger he was feeling wasn't fading; instead it was raving in his stomach like a horde of agitated butterflies, was caught in his throat like an itch that couldn't be scratched. He was angry at Sylar, of course. But he was also, suddenly, angry at himself.

He hadn't made any effort to help Harris, to help the woman who lived in apartment 3F. He'd been repeatedly reminding himself (telling himself) that he was doing all he was doing – picking his battles, acting mostly subservient -- for the good of Molly and the others. And yet his heart had leaped at the chance of rescue, at the possibility of a rescue that could get someone he cared about killed.

_And Jake Harris_, he thought. Harris had no obligation, no past connection to him. The man might decide he didn't want anything to do with helping him, that he didn't want anything more to do with the powerful psycho that had attempted to kill him. (Never mind that he'd sought out Mohinder's apartment, that he'd met up with Niki and D.L., that didn't mean anything concrete). _And even if Harris does help_, realized the geneticist, _there's no guarantee that he can overpower Sylar_. There was no guarantee that he wouldn't be murdered.

A large hand gripped his forearm. Mohinder, feeling dazed and distracted with all of the dark thoughts running through his mind, didn't resist.

Without a word, Sylar pulled him down the hallway. They reached the elevator; rode it back to the ground floor.

When the ding sounded and the doors slid open to reveal the lobby the geneticist finally jerked out of the hold. "Don't touch me," he said, and then promptly bit his lip. He was tired of being a captive, he was furious at himself and at the killer, he wasn't thinking straight.

Sylar, no doubt feeling irritated himself after missing his chance to aquire two abilities in a row, made a low and dangerous sound in his throat. "This is your warning, Mohinder," he growled as they reached the exit. Mohinder was walking slightly ahead of him, trying his best to ignore the other man.

The geneticist pushed at both doors and they flew wide; outside was just as they had left it – cold but not snowing, quiet, the Kia parallel parked, the night sky rife with ominous clouds. The street before the three story building was exactly as it had been before they had gone inside...except for one thing.

One person.

"You will not-" the serial killer was saying, but stopped abruptly when he spotted the figure standing directly across the street. The figure was hunched, clad in what looked in the poor light like a blue jacket and jeans. And the figure was facing them. Staring at them.

For a moment Mohinder's mind was blank, uncomprehending of what or who he was looking at. And then the person across the street shifted, and the answer of who it was they were looking at jumped to the forefront of the geneticist's mind. "Harris," he breathed (it sounded a little like a question), and despite his earlier dark thoughts he felt glad, _excited_.

"You," said Sylar from behind him as Mohinder was tensing to move out of the way. Because Jake Harris was _running_ now, _rushing_ towards them and-

Without slowing down, Harris lifted his hand. There was a quick flash of blue-white light and then-

Mohinder felt a pain in his side. He gasped. Stumbled back into Sylar's chest. He felt the killer catch him; felt large hands grip his arms to steady him. A wetness that was both warm and cold at the same time began dripping down his skin, the hands guided him to sit on one of the squat steps.

"Wha-" Mohinder tried, clutching at his right side (the shirt he was wearing was torn there, was suddenly damp and hot), but no one was listening to him.

The geneticist, unsure and in pain, looked up. Saw Sylar standing in front of him, saw Jake Harris now only a few feet away. He was facing the killer.

"You deserve this," said Harris. "You both deserve this."

Harris tensed; clenched his fists. Sylar spread his fingers wide, and a dangerous looking glow appeared, hovering, over his left palm.

"Okay, Harris," hissed the killer at the exact same moment Jake Harris breathed, "Let's finish this."

There was movement then, heat and light and _noise_.

But Mohinder was hurting, and tired, and words were running through his head. _He tried to kill you_. Hadn't Sylar said that? Hadn't the killer told him that from the very beginning?

_So much for being saved. _And the geneticist looked up one last time – caught a glimpse of Harris' face. He felt a flash of recognition, a feeling of _'I know him, I know who he is' _for a brief second.

And then there was blackness.


	8. Chapter 8

Strange Condition  
by Harikari

AN: I really, really hope this doesn't disappoint. All is revealed in this chapter, folks. Hope you enjoy. Thanks to all those who have been leaving comments/feedback! It's much appreciated. :)

--

**Part Eight**

Mohinder woke to pain. His entire left side was sore, his neck was burning, and...his _hip_. The area just above his right hip was stinging, _hurting_. He groaned; opened his eyes.

_Deja vu_, he thought when he saw nothing but whiteness. A pillow. He was face down and in a bed, was staring into a pillow.

Being kidnapped, the drawing, Molly's voice mail message, Jake Harris appearing as if from nowhere and attacking him... All of the memories of the last few days and nights seeped slowly to the forefront of his mind. _Harris_, he thought, still mostly asleep. Still dazed. His last memory was of Jake Harris and Sylar readying to fight. _What happened?_ he wondered. And, feeling strangely anxious for the serial killer, he shifted. Moved to get up.

He pushed himself to his elbows; let out a sound that was something between a whine and a gasp when the stinging feeling near his hip became a pulling, _tearing_ sensation. In pain and suddenly exhausted (his breathing was coming harsh and fast), he dropped back down onto the bed.

"You'll be okay," came a voice from somewhere above him. Sylar's voice. Mohinder started, attempted to roll over. But before he had managed to move the killer had a hand at the back of his head; was running fingers through his hair.

Mohinder breathed. Felt is as the hand touching his head traveled south to the back of his neck, his bare shoulders.

_Bare_. With a start, the geneticist realized he wasn't wearing a shirt, that the jeans he'd pulled on that morning were gone. He was on a bed – on top of its sheets and blanket – wearing only his boxers.

He jerked away from the fingers lingering on his shoulders. Managed, finally (and with considerable trouble), to roll over and face the serial killer.

"Sylar," he panted. "What happened?"

"Jake Harris," hissed the killer. "He found us."

Mohinder nodded distractedly; stared at the bandage that was covering most of his right hip. It was turning red. "What did he do?" he asked after a moment. "What happened? Did you...kill him?"

Slowly, Sylar shook his head.

Mohinder blinked. He felt tired, sluggish. "He got away?"

"Not exactly."

"Then what happened?"

The killer pursed his lips. His eyes narrowed. "You're bleeding." He dropped down onto the edge of the bed, started to reach for the now soiled bandage. Mohinder took in a shaky breath. The killer paused; hovered.

There was a stretch of silence.

"I wouldn't have gone after you," Sylar said abruptly.

"What?" asked the geneticist. The comment made no sense to his exhausted mind, had come from nowhere.

"I wouldn't have gone after you," he said again. "The drawing...I wouldn't have gone after you. I was going to let it go, let it..."

Sylar trailed off. He licked at his lips, visibly swallowed. He seemed nervous. Actually _nervous_.

"But you were _there_ when I went for Harris and I..." He stopped again.

Mohinder stared; he didn't know how to react to what he was hearing, could hardly _believe_ what he was hearing.

The larger man slid closer to his captive, leaned in. "And Kirby Plaza," he went on as his hand moved, then came to rest on the geneticist's exposed stomach (Mohinder's heart sped up at this, his breath faltered, but – afraid protesting the touch would result in a scene similar to the one that had played out when he'd found Isaac's drawing – he didn't flinch away). "I _called_ you. You know I wasn't trying to destroy New York, Mohinder. I was trying to stop Peter from destroying New York."

The geneticist shook his head. "You were trying to _kill_ him. To take his power."

The killer's eyes seemed suddenly darker. His expression tightened. "Peter Petrelli had no control. He nearly killed thousands upon thousands of people because of that lack of control. And yes, I did want to take his power. I have control. I know how to handle the power I collect, how to _use_ it."

_Yes_, Mohinder thought._ You certainly know how to use it._ But he said nothing.

Again, they stared into each other's eyes.

Mohinder was the first to turn away. He shifted in an attempt to relieve the steady ache in his lower back; regretted it when the painful, pulling sensation returned with a vengeance. He tried to swallow a groan, failed.

He was exhausted, in pain, confused. He didn't understand why Sylar was talking to him like he was, what the serial killer was trying to do. Was he trying to justify all that he'd done? Was he...searching for forgiveness?

_I really, really doubt it._

For a long moment the geneticist simply stared at the stretch of ceiling directly above him and breathed (he could hear his heart pounding in his ears, could feel himself bleeding – knew that the bandage he was wearing was getting soaked).

"What happened?" he asked after what seemed like a long time. "What did Harris do to me?" His eyes felt heavy. He allowed them to fall shut.

"Go to sleep, Mohinder," ordered Sylar, instead of answering.

Mohinder wanted to argue. But he was so very tired, and with his eyes closed and his breathing slow and steady the pain was less intense. Almost nonexistent.

He felt Sylar's hand – the hand that wasn't still resting on his belly – slide up his arm. Felt the weight of the other man's head come to rest on his collarbone. Felt the killer's hair tickling at his neck.

He wanted to push Sylar away.

He fell asleep.

--

When Mohinder woke again the pain had lessened.

Slowly, he sat up. He swung his legs over the side of the bed he was on and stood. He ran slender fingers through his tangled curls and blinked; shot a look around and realized he still felt dazed, lethargic.

_Perhaps Sylar gave me something_, he mused. _Something for the pain_. Head swimming, the geneticist took in his surroundings. He was in what looked like a studio apartment – a wide open space that consisted of a large bed, an open kitchen area, and a single plush chair and sofa that were crowded next to the wall.

Sylar's apartment, he assumed. It made sense. Gabriel Gray's apartment had been compromised a while ago. And a serial killer on the run would doubtless need a base of operations, a place to rest and a place to plan.

There was an unhurried and repetitive movement to his left. The geneticist looked, saw Sylar himself sitting pretzel style on the floor. He was hunched over, his eyes were a solid pearl white, and he was drawing. Drawing. Again.

The sudden sick feeling in his stomach triumphed over the spike of curiousity that had arisen, and he very carefully didn't look at the sketch pad in his captor's lap.

Mohinder spotted a pile of clothes spread messily across the sofa; walked over and started to sort through the pile. He liberated the slacks he'd been wearing the night he'd been kidnapped and pulled them on. Then he grabbed a black t-shirt (Sylar's) and slipped that on.

Barefoot, he made his way over to the large board that dominated the otherwise unoccupied space between the kitchen and the impromptu living room. He'd spotted it as soon as he'd stood, knew exactly what it was. The board looked almost exactly like the one that his father had fashioned, the one that the geneticist himself had in his apartment, the one he'd found in Sylar's old place.

Along with a plethora of others, there was a picture of Jake Harris tacked to the board. _Yes_, he thought. He took in the man's features. His eyes, the shape of his face. _I know who you are_. He was sure he did. Almost sure.

A feeling of helplessness overtook the geneticist as he stared at the picture of Harris. He turned away.

_Shoes_, he thought as he spun. He swept his eyes over the rest of the room; spotted his tennis shoes on the floor near the bed. He walked over and grabbed them, began to put them on.

He pulled at his left sneaker's lace, pursed his lips and glanced at his kidnapper.

He wasn't sure what had happened after Harris' attack. He _suspected_ that Sylar had promptly collected him (his injured ward) and escaped Harris, or that the older man had fled from the serial killer.

He supposed knowing exactly what had happened wasn't important. No. What was important was the fact that he was still alive, the fact that he had a chance now of being able to warn Molly and Niki and the others about _both_ Sylar and Harris (warn, because with Sylar as his captor, with Jake Harris out for his blood he no longer had any illusions of rescue or a successful escape) because the serial killer was at that very moment oblivious.

Trying very hard not to think about what future scene the killer was sketching, not to worry over what had happened between said killer and Harris outside of the squat apartment complex, he finished tying his shoes. He looked around the apartment, didn't spot a phone.

Then – with one last glance at his captor – he stood, grabbed his coat from where he'd spotted it hanging on a hook in the wall (his cell phone was gone from its pocket – he'd likely lost it during Harris' attack), strode quickly passed the kitchen and pseudo living room to the door.

He opened the door and stepped outside.

--

_I slept through an entire day_, was the first thought that came to Mohinder when he stepped outside.

The sky was no longer the pitch black he remembered. Instead, it was a lighter gray. But it wasn't the gray of early morning – he could clearly see that the sun wasn't coming up. It was _setting_.

The geneticist stared up at the sky (thick, dark and ominous clouds were again dominating the run of sky above the city – they were heavy looking, maybe ready to burst); brought his hand up to probe at the bandaged wound beneath the t-shirt he was wearing.

_What happened?_ he wondered. _How hurt was I...am I?_ A sharp pain assaulted him, and he stopped probing. _The pain_, he pondered as he recalled how dizzy and out of it he'd felt when he'd stood from Sylar's bed (he still, in fact, felt somewhat drowsy). _Sylar almost definitely gave me something for the pain_.

Mohinder swallowed. Thought about lifting his shirt and checking his wound for himself, quickly dismissed the idea. His wound wasn't bothering him much just then, and he had more important things to focus on. Sylar would only be oblivious for so long – he had to find a phone and make the call he'd been intending to make since he'd first been kidnapped. And he had to do it all quickly. Do it all before the serial killer discovered he was gone.

The geneticist grabbed the pair of gloves balled in his jacket's pocket and slipped them on. He shot a look around (noticed vaguely that there was no sign of the rented Kia anywhere near the building). Then he started walking.

He dodged other pedestrians as he went (a man walking his dog, the odd business person making a late trek home, some young woman who appeared to be loitering on the sidewalk). He walked quickly – didn't slow his pace until the apartment buildings around him morphed into businesses.

He stopped in front of a mini grocery store. Just outside the store's door was a phone booth sporting a single phone. The geneticist took a deep breath; strode over and picked up the phone.

He put it to his ear and sighed. It had a dial tone. It _worked_.

Mohinder reached into his left pocket and pulled out two quarters. He slipped the coins into the pay slot and...hesitated.

_Niki's number_. He didn't know Niki's home or cell number. Not by heart. But... _Wait_. Molly and the others had been at his apartment, had been at his place the last time he'd heard from them. He could try there.

He punched his number, listened as the dial tone turned to a ring. Continued to listen as the ring turned to a message, his own voice, telling callers to leave their name and number.

"Niki," he started once the beep signaling that the machine was recording sounded. "It's Mohinder. Don't come looking for me, Niki. It's too dangerous. I'm...it's Sylar. He's back. He isn't dead. I'm with him now. _Don't_ come looking for me. Go back to Las Vegas and call Bennet. Find Bennet. He might know what to do." He paused, his breath coming fast. He sounded rushed and panicky and scared, he knew. But he couldn't help it, and he had to get everything out. He had to make sure that he told them everything they needed to know. "And Harris. Jake Harris, Niki. I think you might have met him already. He's dangerous, too. He's powerful. Be careful. I don't know if he'll hurt anybody else, but..."

He trailed off, took a deep breath. His hands were shaking. "Just be careful. All of you. And...Molly. Tell Molly that..." He paused. "Please tell Molly that I love her."

He pulled the phone away from his ear. And as he did he heard a voice, a young male voice (Micah, it had to be Micah) sound through the ear piece. "Wait. Mo-" said the voice, but Mohinder was already in motion. And before he could react to the voice, before he could force himself to pull the phone away from the hook and back to his ear, he'd hung up.

He stared at the phone for a long moment. Told himself that it was for the best. He'd told those he cared about all he could. He'd done what he could for them, even if all he could do wasn't really very much. He'd finally managed to warn them all about Sylar. Even about Harris.

Actually talking to them would've only made telling them everything, telling them not to try anything to save him, all the harder.

The geneticist breathed deep. Turned from the phone booth and entered the small store. The light in the store was an ugly yellowish color, made everything look strange and sallow. The place was empty except for the man behind the counter.

"Do you have a bathroom I could use?" Mohinder asked. The man frowned, but reached under the counter and brought up a key attached to an overlarge key chain.

Mohinder took the key and key chain, walked in the direction the man behind the counter had gestured at, and stepped into the small bathroom.

Slowly, he closed and locked the door behind him. Then he turned to the badly smeared mirror above the stained sink and studied his reflection.

_I look horrible_. His hair was a mess, he had bags under his eyes and he looked tired. Really tired.

He washed his face, rinsed his mouth, ran his fingers through his hair in an attempt at combing it. When he was finished he felt a little better. As he stepped out of the tiny bathroom and returned the key to the frowning man he decided he'd call a cab from the payphone outside. Maybe direct the cab to some anonymous hotel. That way he wouldn't be putting Molly and the others in any danger by trying to head back to his apartment building, but could still try to escape from his captor (never mind the fact that he didn't believe he'd get very far, he had to try).

He stepped out of the store – the little bell above the door _dinged_ at his exit – and stuffed one of the mints he'd just purchased into his mouth in an attempt to eliminate the lingering cotton taste (he'd found his wallet in the back pocket of his pants where he'd left it, wondered idly if it had gone through a wash cycle). Then he put the remainder of the tin of mints away.

He stared for a moment at the lights decorating the store's windows, the wreath hanging on its door. _Almost Christmas_. He'd nearly forgotten.

He moved, started to turn towards the phone booth – came to an abrupt stop when he caught sight of something...different.

It was a person. Someone on the sidewalk, only a few feet away. But the someone wasn't passing by, wasn't heading into the little store or moving to use the phone. No, the someone was just standing there. Still, silent, _eerie_.

"Doctor," said Harris, and he stepped closer. He sounded surprised. "I didn't expect to see you here." Definitely sounded surprised. And pleased.

Mohinder started slowly backing away.

"No," ordered the older man. "Dont do that. Dont...come _here_."

He grabbed for the startled geneticist; caught him by the forearm and started walking. He dragged the younger man away from the store, down the sidewalk, into a desserted alley.

Harris gave a hard shove and Mohinder stumbled back a few steps. He watched as the older man bent, pulled a handgun from a holster attached to his ankle and hidden under his jeans. The man then aimed the gun square at the geneticist's head.

"Okay," he said. And he seemed strangely excited, ecstatic. "Go ahead. Call him."

Genuinely lost, Mohinder blinked. "What? Who?"

Harris frowned. "Sylar, Doctor. Call for Sylar. I know he can hear you."

_How?_ wondered the geneticist. _How does he know about Sylar's hearing? And why does he think he'll come for me?  
_  
Mohinder swallowed hard. "Mr. Harris," he started instead. "I know what you're doing. I know why you're doing it. And-"

"Oh?" Harris stepped closer. The soft light of the nearby street light half fell on him; helped to clearly illuminate the man. And, suddenly, Mohinder was sure about Harris. Did know exactly who he was. He was sure as he'd been at the moment he'd passed out. He was positive.

"You think you know why I'm doing this, Doctor Suresh?"

"Yes," answered Mohinder without hesitating. "I know who you are."

Jake Harris was silent for a moment; he stared saucer eyed at the geneticist. Then his eyes narrowed, he visibly swallowed. "Then you know that you deserve this." He waved the gun a little. "That you both deserve this."

Mohinder took a deep breath in an attempt to calm himself. "Mr. Harris...what happened. I didn't mean for it to happen. I know that-"

But Harris cut him off. "You can't even say it, can you? You're so fucking _guilty_..." He trailed off. When he spoke again his voice didn't just sound angry. It sounded dangerous. "You can't even say her name."

Mohinder met his latest captive's furious eyes, he stood a little straighter. "I'm sorry," he said, and his voice shook. "I am sorry about Dale, Mr. Harris. I'm sorry about your sister."

Dale Smither. The mechanic from Montana, the woman Sylar had taken his enhanced hearing from.

Jake Harris' mysterious quest for revenge (_'you deserve this'_, he'd said – he kept saying), the black and white photo of the little girl and young man standing in front of a car, the serial killer's prolonged stare at that photo while standing in the hallway of the small apartment complex the night before. And the _resemblance_. The striking resemblance that the geneticist had noticed after being attacked. It all added up, all made since. Despite their name difference (maybe a factor of marriage, maybe something else) Jake Harris and Dale Smither were siblings.

Jake Harris was out to avenge his younger sister. Had been out to avenge her since that first evening Mohinder had shown up on his doorstep. He knew, somehow, about both Mohinder and Sylar's meeting with Dale. Knew about their involvement in her death. Her murder.

Suddenly, Harris was moving. He pushed into Mohinder's space, gun still drawn and aimed. The geneticist gasped as memory flashed in his mind (Harris rushing across the street, raising his hand, a flash of something bluish white and then _pain_). "Shut up, Doctor. Stop. Just do what I say. _Call_ Sylar. I know he'll come for you. You were with him in Montana. He came after you the night you came to my house."

Mohinder's breath was coming hard and fast now. He could feel himself shaking. "He'll notice your voice. I know he will," said the older man.

But the geneticist wasn't listening; didn't hear the demand. Because he was thinking, lost in a memory. The memory of a conversation he'd had with Nathan what seemed like ages ago. A conversation about Peter Petrelli's powers.

_"Peter's specific DNA allows for a blend. Like colors in a mosaic, re-sequencing itself to mimic the abilities of those around him."_

"_Call_ him," demanded Harris. The geneticist stared.

"That won't be necessary," said Sylar, stepping as if from nowhere into the dark alleyway. "I'm already here."

There was a stunned silence, just for a moment, and then Jake Harris grabbed his hostage around the shoulders and held him close. A human shield.

"He's Dale Smither's brother," Mohinder said, in a quiet voice, before either Sylar or Harris could make a threatening move.

The serial killer's eyes were narrowed slits, emotionless.

"And he..."

"I know," purred Sylar, and he grinned a malicious looking grin. "Mr. Harris here has a power. A special ability. I wasn't sure at first what it was. I couldn't figure it out." Slowly, he strolled closer. "He threw someone across a room using only his mind, he matched me blow for blow both times we met...he _miraculously_ found us outside of that apartment building and then nicked you with a shard of ice _he_ created." He paused, pointedly eyed the gleaming handgun. "But...you don't have my powers or Molly Walker's power, do you Harris?"

Mohinder felt his captor tense behind him. Then...

"No," answered Harris, smiling a dark half smile. "I don't have any one of those powers. Not any one. I have them all."

Nathan Petrelli had taken a guess, had tried to compare his brother's ability to something concrete. He'd been wrong. Mohinder had corrected him, told him that his brother's ability was more similar to a sponge. But what Nathan had said – the example he'd used – fit perfectly with Harris, with what _he_ was capable of.

_"Like a chameleon," Nathan had said.  
_  
Like a chameleon.


	9. Chapter 9

Strange Condition  
by Harikari

AN: Here's the end. Much thanks to everyone who has commented/reviewed. You all are what makes writing and posting fanfiction worth it. Thanks, everyone! I hope you enjoy.

--

**Part Nine **

Mohinder's back was pressed close against Jake Harris' chest. The older man had one arm wrapped tight around the geneticist's shoulders; the other, the one burdened with the weight of a glock, was sticking straight out. The nose of the gun was pointed at Sylar's forehead. The hand holding the weapon was steady.

_He smells like smoke_, thought Mohinder. _He smells like his home_. Harris shifted a little; the geneticist couldn't help tensing more, letting out a soft gasp of alarm. He was trying hard not to panic. His breath was coming fast, his thoughts whirring dizzyingly through his mind.  
_  
Chameleon_. _A_ chameleon. _He can mimic other's abilities for a time. He's..._ He was capable of beating Sylar. Very capable. Mohinder's heart fluttered disturbingly at the thought (and he wasn't completely sure why it did, perhaps because knowing that Harris could conceivably do away with the super powered serial killer meant knowing that _he_ was almost certainly going to die – of _course_ he was).

"So you've figured it all out," came Harris' voice from directly behind him. He sounded unmoved, unimpressed. "You've both played detective. Discovered that I plan to kill you...to do to you what you did to my little sister." There was a pause; Mohinder could hear Harris' erratic breathing (could actually feel it against his back), his own breathing. He stared at Sylar – the killer, expressionless and still, looked otherworldly and intimidating in the low light.

"Good," Harris continued. "I'm glad. It's easier this way. Now I don't have to waste time explaining why I'm doing this – you know what you did wrong. Now I can just get straight to the killing you."

There was silence for a beat. And then...

"You really believe you can kill me, old man?" asked Sylar. His voice sounded deep, almost a growl. He didn't sound afraid.

"I know I can you son of a bitch," breathed Harris.

And suddenly, before Mohinder had time to fall even deeper into panic, Harris' grip around his shoulders tightened (the grip was vise like now, almost painful). The older man's entire body seemed to straighten, lock into place.

The geneticist saw it as Harris' grip on the handgun he was holding shifted, tensed. Saw it as the man's finger started to move. As he pulled the trigger.

The shot was _loud_.

Without thought Mohinder forced his body forward and broke free of the hold on his shoulders, lifted his arms to cover his ears with his hands. But it was too late. Because the shot had already been fired, and his ears were ringing painfully.

The geneticist swallowed hard and, hands still clamped tight over both ears, he looked up; was met with the sight of Sylar still standing. The serial killer's hand was raised, palm forward and stark white against the darkness. And the bullet – Mohinder squinted, could _just _make out the spent bullet floating in midair. Stuck in place, in the air, halfway between Harris and the killer.

"You've had all of my powers a few times now, Harris," said Sylar. He sounded angry now, _looked_ angry. "You should know better than that."

Sylar flicked the wrist of the hand he was holding out in front of him; hardly a move at all. The bullet fell to the ground and the gun in Harris' hand went flying; landed with a violent clatter on the damp ground. He flicked his wrist again – Mohinder felt a pressure on his shoulders, forceful but invisible hands pushing him backwards and away from Harris.

He stumbled back, came to a stop when his back was almost touching the wall of one of the two hulking buildings they were standing between. "Syl-" he started, but was cut off.

"Stay there, Mohinder."

Harris, who had been standing as if in shock -- his teeth clenched and bared – seemed to come back to himself then. He turned. "Yes, Doctor. Stay there." And quickly, he raised his hand.

Mohinder's back slammed _hard _against the wall, the back of his head hit it with a smack that made his teeth rattle inside his head. He let out a shout; felt a sudden rush of pain in his already wounded side, as if fingers were digging into the-

"_Stop_!" demanded Sylar. And even through the pain Mohinder glimpsed movement. Sylar stepping closer, raising his arm. The pain abruptly ceased, Mohinder fell to his knees and Harris _flew_.

The man hit the dumpster near the back of the alley with a _bang_. He groaned, cursed, started to struggle back up. But Sylar was already walking; he took long strides, easily ate up the distance between him and his target.

Squinting, one hand pressed against his throbbing side and trying to struggle up himself, the geneticist caught a hint of a sadistic looking smile gracing the serial killer's face. He watched as Sylar again raised his arm-

The killer was abruptly thrown back, landed hard on his back a few feet in front of Mohinder.

The geneticist gasped as Harris stood.

"You can't beat me!" shouted Harris. Loud and desperate sounding. He was breathing hard. Was slowly stumbling closer to the fallen Sylar.

Mohinder, still on his knees, flinched and half turned his head a split second later when Sylar unexpectedly sat up, a glowing bluish white light already emanating from his left hand.

The killer jerked his arm back, quickly swung it forward again; the light _flew_. It hit Harris in the chest. The man stopped his advance, let out a grunt. The light seemed to spread over his chest, tendrils of blue and white reaching out and overtaking his broad chest area like the wriggling limbs of some horrific creature, before vanishing. Before disappearing _into_ the older man's chest.

_He absorbed it_, realized Mohinder immediately.

"You've had your powers for a lot longer than me," spat Harris. His voice was deep with what was doubtlessly anger and vicious hate. He was close to Sylar now, was standing over the killer and glaring down at him. "You should know better."

Sylar narrowed his eyes, finally stood as a dark grin spread across Harris' face.

"I'll-" started Harris, but before he could continue the killer lashed out. His fist slammed into Harris' face; the man reeled backwards a few steps, his nose bleeding. Sylar didn't pause; he spread his fingers, seemed to concentrate for a second and then closed them again to clutch a shard of ice that had appeared in his hand.

_Of course he'll win_, thought Mohinder, feeling relief and dread all in the same moment. What had he been thinking? _Harris has all of his powers but Sylar... _Sylar had experience.

The serial killer stepped forward and, gripping the frozen stake tightly, raised it; he brought it down hard, _fast _– it was less than half an inch away from sinking into Harris' neck when the older man _moved_. He grabbed Sylar's wrist, wrestled it away – they struggled, Sylar baring his teeth in anger and not letting up his hold on the weapon and Harris not loosening his hold on the killer's wrist.

Then, without warning, Harris rolled the hand he wasn't holding onto the killer with into a fist; punched Sylar so hard in the gut that the younger man made a choking sound, doubled over. The stake dropped, landed on the ground – a few small pieces of it broke off, shattered.

Sylar had his free arm wrapped around his abdomen, seemed to be struggling to breathe.

And suddenly Mohinder recalled the stand off at Kirby Plaza and Hiro stabbing the serial killer, remembered that that battle had only taken place a little over a month ago and the fact that for as long as he'd been the man's captive the killer had shown signs of still being in pain, still being injured.

Harris brought his knee up, launched it into his opponent's stomach. Sylar cried out.

Mohinder, stunned and frightened, held his breath for a moment. But then Harris was kicking Sylar _again_, and the killer wasn't fighting back any longer, wasn't pulling away.

_"The drawing...I wouldn't have gone after you. I was going to let it go, let it..."  
_  
The geneticist swept the alley with his eyes, paused when he spotted the gun on the ground only a few feet away.

_"...You know I wasn't trying to destroy New York, Mohinder. I was trying to stop Peter from destroying New York." _

Sylar collapsed to his knees.

With difficulty, Mohinder stood. Still bent slightly at the waist, his wound burning, he started towards the weapon.

He heard the sound of impact -- flesh on flesh. Heard the killer grunt again as he reached the gun, bent to retrieve it.

It was heavy in his hand. He gripped it tightly, pulled in a deep breath and straightened; turned. Harris had his back to him, was staring down at his opponent. The serial killer was mostly limp – it looked as if the only thing preventing him from falling flat on his face was Harris' grip on his wrist.

_"...I have control. I know how to handle the power I collect, how to use it."  
_  
Harris' free hand was starting to glow,

Mohinder slowly raised the gun; aimed.

"You mutilated her," Jake Harris was saying. His voice was trembling. "You..." He faltered. "I would ask you why, but I already know the answer. I know you're scum, you're evil. I know why you do what you do." He bent until his mouth was close to Sylar's ear. "I know what's important to you, and I plan to destroy it once I'm finished with you."

Sylar's teeth flashed in what looked like angry grimace. He started moving, the glow of Harris' hand quickly morphed into a red and deadly looking orb of light floating just over his palm. He swung his arm up and back-

Mohinder pulled the trigger. The shot rang out (it sounded even louder than the last). Harris screamed; fell.

The bullet had caught him in the leg – his left calf. He was on all fours now, bleeding and gasping and seemingly surprised. He swallowed, Mohinder saw him tense as if to get up...

Sylar stood. Shot a look at the geneticist, brows raised and whispered, "That's my boy."

Mohinder swallowed a retort. Took a single step back. The serial killer turned back to his fallen opponent.

"No," pleaded Harris as Sylar's eyes met his. He sounded broken. Horrible guilt made Mohinder's throat tight, his eyes tearful. "You'll pay," he went on. "You'll both-"

The killer jerked his neck – Mohinder gasped in surprise, quickly turned away – there was a _whoosh_ (the sound of Harris body speeding through the air, the geneticist knew) and then a loud and horrible crunching sound.

Mohinder felt sick, closed his eyes and tried to steady his breathing. A moment later he felt a cold wetness on his cheek; opened his eyes and saw Sylar standing before him, saw that a flurry of snowflakes were falling on them, surrounding them.

_It's snowing. _

He met Sylar's gaze.

"Is he...?" Mohinder asked, started to ask, but stopped when he realized he really didn't want to know. If Harris wasn't dead now he would be soon. The serial killer would make sure of that. "I...I didn't help you because..." he said instead, but found he couldn't get those words out either.

Couldn't get them out because, though he'd known the moment he'd pulled the trigger why he was doing it (because if Harris killed Sylar he would undoubtedly die too, because with Peter Petrelli dead Sylar was the only one capable of stopping any human being with abilities honestly bent on taking over or destroying the entire world that might arise one day – he was the comfortable evil, the evil Mohinder knew) he felt lost and unsure now.

"I know," said Sylar. He stared down at Mohinder for a moment. Then he reached over; pulled the handgun from the geneticist's grip.

The retrieval of the gun was unexpected. Mohinder thought briefly about trying to take it back. Instead, feeling suddenly exhausted and guilty and hurt and like he might pass out at any moment, he lifted one hand to clutch at the killer's shoulder, leaned into it.

Sylar didn't react to the touch at first. He just held the gun to the side and at arms length, closed his eyes; the weapon slowly melted into a thick looking silvery liquid, dripped slowly from the serial killer's fingers and onto the ground.

Mohinder watched the other man. "Harris," he started as Sylar was shaking out his hand (shaking it to, apparently, rid it of any traces of melted gun – though there was nothing on his skin that the geneticist could see). "He said something about a little girl at a grocery store the night I...we...met him. He knew about Dale because..." He shook his head, felt light headed and not quite himself. "He must have crossed paths with someone with an ability, someone who can see into people's minds or..."

He trailed off when Sylar gripped at his waist with both hands – just above his hips; _held_ him. The snow was still falling. Mohinder could see his own breath and the killer's breath as they exhaled; the clouds their breathing produced mingled briefly in the air, then disapeared.

"And," the geneticist went on, "I gave him my contact information when I first called him. He must have used that to get to my apartment, where of course he ran into Molly and the others and-"

The serial killer leaned down so that their foreheads were touching and they were staring directly into each other's dark eyes. Mohinder breathed.

"I'm not going to help you, Sylar," he insisted. "I'm not going to tag along and help you kill innocent people. I _won't_."

Sylar didn't argue. He just _moved_; caught the geneticist's mouth in a kiss. Mohinder let out a startled sound of protest, started to push the taller man away...

Stopped when he felt a tongue penetrate the hot cavern of his mouth. Moaned. Started to kiss back, to duel with the tongue trying to dominate his own.

Sylar broke the kiss to breathe; forced Mohinder back a few steps so that his spine was pressed against the wall again. Then the killer leaned in, pulled at Mohinder's jacket and the shirt underneath (the killer's t-shirt, the geneticist remembered, and wondered if that fact earned him the predatory growl that emerged from Sylar's throat) to expose his shoulder, bent until the geneticist could feel moist breath on his neck. Until he was licking biting, _sucking_ at the bruise he'd left there only a few days before.

Mohinder pushed at the killer's shoulders, urged him up. They kissed again. Heated and wet and slightly sloppy. The smaller man felt it as the killer slid one arm around his back (as if to hold him close, keep him in place), moved the other up. His large fingers found the geneticist's hair and combed through his curls, _pulled_ at them until he let out a cry that was muffled by their kiss.

Mohinder pulled away from the killer's mouth then, and Sylar let him.

The taller man rested his head against the geneticist's shoulder, breathed deep. He removed his hand from where it was tangled in his captive's hair. Moved it down. Slowly snaked it up under the geneticist's shirt – his palm was splayed flat against Mohinder's stomach for a long moment.

After a pause his hand moved, slid up to brush against a sensitive nipple. Mohinder gasped -

And then, suddenly, Sylar straightened. Looked away. He stared off into the distance for a beat, turned back to the geneticist. Smiled.

Mohinder blinked. Recognized the grin as the same malicious lift of the mouth from that first night at Harris' house. Sylar leaned so that his mouth was close to his captive's ear and whispered, "I should go, Doctor. Your friends are coming."

Feeling dazed, Mohinder shook his head. "My...what? My friends? How?"

But Sylar didn't answer; just quickly pulled him in (ground his obvious arousal against Mohinder's hip – the geneticist blushed at this, his own erection had quickly disappeared at Sylar's mention of his friends and at the realization of who exactly he was with -- he felt sick now, cold) before stepping back.

The serial killer stared at him for a moment, stared at him as if he was taking every detail in, then reached into his left coat pocket and pulled out something small and black...

_My cellphone. _

Mohinder's eyes widened.

_Why does he have my cellphone? Did he pick it up when I was attacked by Harris' or...has he known all along that I've had it?_

"Here," Sylar said, and enfolded the phone in the geneticist's hand. "You probably need this." He seemed to hesitate for a second, then bent forward. Mohinder swallowed, waited for the kiss he knew was coming -

The geneticist let out a surprised shout when Sylar bit him hard on the bottom lip; drew blood. The killer gave a dark laugh. Mohinder could see the blood he'd just drawn (mixed with the blood that had leaked from the cut Harris' had given him) glistening on his skin, in the corner of his mouth. "I'll come back for you," he promised before turning and walking away.

The geneticist stared at him for a moment. Then, abruptly, it was as if a fog had lifted. As if some sort of invisible veil had been been hiding or shielding the alley they were in from the world. It lifted and Mohinder could hear cars again, people passing noisily by just outside of the alleyway...

_"Mohinder!" _

Mohinder's breath caught in his throat at the shout. At the sound of that voice. _Molly's_ voice. He turned, saw the little girl hurrying towards him. She was running up the alley (behind her, idling just outside of the alleyway was a car (Niki and D.L. were stepping out of it), splashing through puddles and Mohinder was afraid for a second that she would slip...

She lifted her arms as she reached him; he lifted her up. She was sobbing. "Mohinder," she managed through her crying as he held her tight, pushed stray tendrils of her long hair behind her ear. "Mohinder, you're _here_."

"I'm here," he managed. He felt dazed, overwhelmed, couldn't quite believe what was happening or what had happened.

"I told them you would be," she said. And she reached up; her small hand brushed his cheek. Her teary eyes found his bleeding mouth. "Are you okay?"

As if from a great distance, Mohinder could hear Niki's heels click-clicking against the ground as she hurried over, could hear D.L. muttering into his cell (the man was talking to Micah, no doubt). He looked behind him; his eyes swept the ground near the dumpster, the entire alley – but there was no trace of Harris' limp body, no trace of Sylar.

"Mohinder?" Molly asked again. And he turned to stare at her. "Are you okay?"

"I am now," answered the geneticist. He felt as if he was awakening from a very long, very strange dream. Sylar's return, Jake Harris' quest for revenge...it all felt far away. Not real.

Molly smiled up at him. Mohinder smiled, too.


	10. Epilogue

**--**

**Epilogue**

Sylar stood, hidden in shadow, on the rooftop of the building directly across from Mohinder Suresh's apartment complex. The building was slightly taller than the one Suresh resided in; as a result, the serial killer had a near perfect view of the geneticist's home.

The killer could see, through a window that was decorated with Christmas lights, both Mohinder and the little girl who could find people asleep on the couch. The Doctor had a book open and sprawled across his chest, the little girl tucked into his side. Their breathing was soft, steady.

_"...still don't get what's so important about this guy," _came a young woman's voice from below. The serial killer flinched; glanced down and saw a woman with blond hair, swank clothing and a rather shapely body pacing on the sidewalk just outside of Mohinder's building, a phone pressed to her ear.

Sylar adjusted his hearing and tuned into the woman's conversation.

_"...times have I told you it isn't your job to _get_ anything, Elle? Just do what you were told to do."_

The young woman sighed. _"Fine, fine. I have been doing what I'm told. I've followed Doctor Mohinder Suresh all over New York. And like I told you, he's been with Sylar. He's practically, like, Sylar's _pet_. And I haven't seen any evidence that Suresh is talking to Bennet and the others." _

There was a pause and then, _"Okay, Elle. Come on home. I'll contact Doctor Suresh myself. We're bringing him in." _

The killer heard the swush as the girl jerked her head and swung her hair so that it hung behind her shoulder. "_Dad_," she said. _"Daddy. Are you sure? I mean, like I said, Suresh has been with Sylar for days and he's not dead. _Days_ with Sylar. That just...doesn't happen. If we take in Suresh Sylar might-" _

_"Didn't I just tell you? Do what you're told, Elle. No questions asked. I expect to see you home tomorrow." _There was a click.

Elle sighed. Tucked away her phone and hurried up the sidewalk towards a little red car. She got in, started it up and pulled into traffic without bothering to warm the engine.

Sylar frowned; could suddenly recall seeing the young woman eating at the diner he'd gone to with Mohinder (he had even glanced her flashing the man a flirty smile as he'd headed to the men's room), getting into her car just before he and the geneticist had headed up to the – unfortunately empty – apartment 3F, even loitering outside of his own apartment when he'd emerged from one of his visions and had gone after the absent Mohinder.

How the hell could he have _missed_ all of that? Missed someone following him...them? He thought of Mohinder; of the geneticist's lips, his lean body, his dark eyes...

Right. Okay. So he'd been distracted.

_So._ Sylar caressed the paper he'd stuffed into his pocket for a second; pulled it out and stared at it. _Someone wants Mohinder. That's going to be a problem. For them. _

He looked at the paper, at the drawing – it was a vision drawing. He'd sketched it himself at his apartment. (Mohinder had taken advantage of his obliviousness as he'd worked on it, had left.)

Sylar grinned. Mused that 'daddy' should've taken Elle's advice.  
_  
They can't fight destiny._


End file.
